


Flaming For Red

by queeryuki



Category: Kuroshitsuji | Black Butler
Genre: BDSM, Blood Kink, Blood and Violence, Bondage, Canon Trans Character, Discipline, Dismemberment, F/F, Forbidden Love, Gender Dysphoria, Hand Jobs, Heartbreak, Heavy Angst, Lesbian Sex, London, Master/Servant, Masturbation, Murder, POV Female Character, Serial Killers, Stabbing, Temperature Play, Tragic Romance, Trans Female Character, Victorian, Wax Play, Whipping
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-10-05
Updated: 2015-08-31
Packaged: 2018-02-20 00:02:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 8
Words: 29,161
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2407781
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/queeryuki/pseuds/queeryuki
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is the story of Madam Red and Grell's relationship, a story of red blood and passion and mistakes and death.  A story of forbidden, lethal, all-consuming love.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The title is inspired by one of Grell's wonderful quotes, "Red is the color of fiery passion, and I am flaming~!" I believe that Grell fell passionately in love with Angelina, and their flaming romance shaped her life and broke her heart…forever. I'm doing period research to make this my best fic, but that also means it can take months for me to post the next chapter. I want to explore Angelina's intimate relationship with her butler, whether it is chains and whips with her submissive lover or strangling a prostitute with her own uterus. This story will be written primarily with flashbacks. And when I say graphic, I mean graphic, to depict what went on in Madam Red's bedroom, the bloody streets of Whitechapel under Jack the Ripper's reign of terror, and most enigmatic and complicated of all…Grell's heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Grell characterization:  
> http://queenofheartsrp.pbworks.com/w/page/40684144/Grell%20Sutcliffe  
> meangirl.dreamwidth.org/2011.html

The whispers mean nothing to me. That, if nothing else, shows how far I am gone. An actress should bask in attention, but I’m disconnected from their words. _Grell’s back! What has he been doing? Is he going to be suspended? This will set the precedent for severe shinigami punishments. I always knew Grell was a troublemaker. Look at all that blood! I’d gladly take Sutcliffe’s job._ Instead of glaring at the shinigami who have dropped all their work to gawk at me, I slowly blink at the ground. The white tiles look blurry and defiantly refuse to come into focus, but they can’t mask my eyes from seeing it again.

Her eyes were shocked in such a way that suggested betrayal. Anger, hurt, or surprise would not have been easier to deal with, but they would have cut less than disappointment. I’d never disappointed my lady before. When my tea didn’t please her, I worked day and night until I’d learned the right way to steep it.

I didn’t mean to kill her. It was a mistake. I was so enraged that she’d choose Ciel over me when I’d given up _everything_ for her that I just snapped. I knew the boy was protected. Instead of protecting Madam Red like it was my duty to, I’d failed her. My scythe buzzed in my ears, so it was the simplest thing to silence her traitorous remarks by hacking her apart.

“What’s happened to Grell? Is she injured?” A worried voice asks, catching up to William, who still has a hand tangled in my hair to prevent me from disappearing again. I don’t look up to meet Alan’s eyes, still too shocked to humor his concern.

“Sutcliffe’s actions are confidential information and have no place in the rumor-mill,” Will snaps. “His infractions are going to be punished properly, and he is unavailable for comment indeterminately.”

“But-” Alan persists. Usually, he complies with his supervisor’s dictates without question or complaint, so he must have been really worried about me in the months I have vanished from home.

“Humphries, he has acted in a way unbefitting of a shinigami. Getting involved would shame you.” Will whisks me away from the crowd and hurries down the hallway until the double glass doors are visible. I flinch, fingers of dread curling over my shoulders as we enter the Shinigami Council.

“You caught him. Well done, Mr. Spears. Although,” Lawrence Anderson, head of the Council and shinigami glasses-maker, clasps his hands on the oaken desk and fixes his eyes on us. “Perhaps the task could have been undertaken a bit more…expediently.”

Will bows to the man, contrite in the presence of authority. “I am sorry, sir. However, due to the unusual circumstances of Sutcliffe’s disappearance, finding clues to his whereabouts was extraordinarily difficult.” He flicks his chartreuse eyes at me. “Sit down, Grell.” I wordlessly sink into the cold metal chair facing the Council.

“How did you go about your search?” The head of the Administrative department, a plump man with balding gray hair to the right of Mr. Anderson, asks.

“As you remember, when Grell’s Death List had inconsistencies, we reassigned his reapings,” Will explains patiently.

“What do you mean by inconsistencies?” The Collections head asks next.

“Pardon me, sir, I thought you knew. Sutcliffe was killing humans not on the Death List.” The Personnel manager gasps and scribbles notes on the parchment in front of him. “We tried to figure out his motives, but these humans did not seem to have anything substantial in common. They were all young ladies with botched pregnancies.”

“Mr. Sutcliffe, for what possible reason did you commit such…such atrocities?” The Personnel manager demands.

“They were all prostitutes,” I mumble, reluctantly drawn out of my self-imposed silence. I don’t care what my verdict is nor what their comments are about my situation. None of this matters when the Madam’s corpse is soaking the cobblestones of Whitechapel. “They deserved to die for killing their babies.”

“Be that as it may,” Mr. Anderson interrupts. “Shinigami should not get involved in human affairs. Mr. Spears, please continue your explanation.”

“Yes, sir,” Will replies. “At one point, Sutcliffe tried to return to his room, which was being guarded. Eric Slingby, a capable shinigami in my department, injured him but was not able to track Sutcliffe to his hideout. Slingby did notice, however, that he smelled of blood-human blood. Until then we did not know why he had disappeared. We were finally able to connect errant souls on our records that we had earlier assumed a demon snatched with Sutcliffe’s interference.

“The human news reported a great malevolence in crime, a serial killer that none were able to find: Jack the Ripper. The humans that Sutcliffe had killed were ascribed to this mysterious Ripper, so we realised that Grell _was_ the Ripper, either alone or with help. With our contacts in Scotland Yard, we investigated the case, but our leads were dismally few. I decided to investigate myself, knowing Ciel Phantomhive-the queen’s brat-would be working to discover Jack the Ripper on his own.

“While I could not get too close to their house with its wards, I followed him in his outings. A woman screamed, Ciel’s butler opened the door, and another butler stepped out and began to fight the demon. The second butler later killed his accomplice, a red-headed society woman. After a time I realised this was Sutcliffe in disguise. I waited until he had been wounded and subsequently subdued to step into the altercation and drag him home,” Will finishes.

“Mr. Sutcliffe, what was this red-headed woman to you?” Mr. Anderson asks me, peering at me over his thick-rimmed glasses.

I press my back into the hard chair, but there is no means of escape. If I materialized out of the Council room, there would be hell to pay. While that sounds fun in theory, I need to be alone right now. I swallow thickly. “Everything.”

The London Shinigami Director trades a glance with the men sitting beside him. “Please elaborate.”

“I…I cannot.” The truth is too raw and profound to divulge to the judgmental supervisors. What was Angelina to me? My friend, my lover, my soulmate. My accomplice in crime. The woman I confided in and who trusted me. The woman who held me close at night after lighting my heart and soul aflame with passion, love, and lust. An intelligent woman devoted to her career and family. A gorgeous societal flower with a beautiful figure and heart. The woman I’ve always wanted to be.

“Your future is hinged on your answers. If you mislead us or refuse to answer a question, that can only be detrimental to you.” I nod, still refusing to reveal our relationship. “Then I will rephrase that question. What was your business with her?”

“I was her butler,” I answer succinctly, wishing this interrogation was over already.

“You weren’t her maid?” Will asks with surprise, knowing my propensity for female clothing (on more than one occasion, he’s made me clock out to change out of my new dresses. He won’t admit that I’m distracting, so he recites paragraphs about the importance of shinigami staying in uniform. I can’t wear a gown, but Eric leaves his shirt unbuttoned. Chauvinism, I tell you.)

“I had to be in disguise, of course. It was horrendous wearing men’s clothing. I felt so disgusting with that wig and I didn’t even wear makeup. I sacrificed everything for her, and then…” I fall silent, not intending to be so animated.

“You killed her,” Will finishes. I cringe, fingers clenching around the chair’s arms.

“But that doesn’t explain why you joined on as her butler in the first place,” Mr. Anderson points out. “Or why you killed this woman who is ‘everything’ to you.”

“Who was she?” The Personnel head suddenly demands. I grit my teeth at his use of ‘was’. “What was her name and profession, and why did she join you in these murders?”

That, at least, is safe to answer. I don’t want to be dismissed from my job-that was never my intention-but I’m still uncomfortable answering their personal questions. “Her name is Angelina Dalles. She was Baroness Burnett until her husband died in an accident. In society, she is known as Madam Red, the Phantomhive brat’s aunt. She was a doctor, but East End whores who were her patients killed their babies. She snapped due to jealousy-we are both infertile women. The Madam was Jack the Ripper, filling my Death List with extra reapings in my district, and she wasn’t caught because I decided to help her.”

Pens scratch on paper as they process my confession. “Do you have anything else to add, Mr. Sutcliffe?” Mr. Anderson asks.

I shake my head wordlessly, hot tears brimming in the corner of my eyes. Madam and I were so happy. How could everything have gone so wrong?

“With London Dispatch numbers being so low, yours is a special case-but you will of course be punished. You are indefinitely suspended and will be under house arrest, effective immediately. Materialization is strictly prohibited and will result in transfer to a different branch. Further decisions affecting your future will be discussed shortly, so your punishment will likely be appended to. Thank you, Mr. Spears, for your efforts in this situation. You will be compensated in accordance with your actions. Please escort Mr. Sutcliffe to his room. No visitors permitted, understand. Dismissed.”

Will bows again then strides out of the room, expecting me to follow. Alan lingers near the door with Eric at his side, evidently having watched the whole affair through the glass walls. “Grell, please talk to me,” Alan pleads.

“Mr. Sutcliffe is under house arrest and cannot entertain visitors until further notice,” Will interrupts, brushing past his subordinates.

“But what _happened_? She’s covered in blood!”

Eric gently places a hand on Alan’s shoulder. “Sometimes people need to be left alone to cope. Sutcliffe obviously isn’t in the mood to talk about whatever happened. The best thing you can do right now is wait until he’s ready.” How would I ever be ready to talk about her death? I can’t even confront it in my own mind!

“I’m always here for you, Grell,” Alan calls as Will and I turn a corner and vanish from sight.

“No materialization,” Will warns as we stop in front of my door. “That includes your scythe. You can leave your room only to eat in the lobby and to use the bathing area. Limit your interactions with other shinigami. The Dispatch Office is off-limits for now. Do you understand?”

“Perfectly.” This is a form of psychological torture; they want me locked in my room to agonize over my ‘sinful crime.’ I’ll obey their rules, but all bets are off if I’m transferred. I refuse to be anything but Dispatch.

“I’m ashamed of you. You had so much potential,” is his parting shot. Will’s disappointment does not weigh nearly as much as Madam’s.

I’m alone in the corridor, dark shadows emphasizing the drawn lines of my face. My hand numbly grips the brass doorknob and I stumble into my room, feeling like a stranger in lieu of my long absence. I’d rather fall asleep bound to Madam’s plush bed, her ripe bosom rubbing provocatively against my cheeks, my lips sucking her dusky nipples as they harden in my mouth. Just thinking about her naked body is enough to start a low throbbing deep within me.

A single wet tear runs in a rivulet over my cheekbones, leaving a trail of sloppily-applied mascara. I sit at my desk and stare blankly at the red-painted wall, pulling off her jacket. My hand trembles uncontrollably as I stroke the jacket’s hole, imagining the pain-both emotional and physical-the wound from my scythe must have caused her. I cannot fold the jacket; it’s too caked with blood to bend. My arms are also spattered with her red liquid. I press my forehead against the thick fabric and sniff deeply, trying to inhale her flirtatious perfume. More tears trace the path of the first, and before long I’m sobbing uncontrollably. Squeezing the Madam’s jacket to my chest, I wail with agony. I have never felt this bereaved, this broken.

If only there was a way to relive my time with her. I would sacrifice anything to rewind the clock. If I was human, I’d make a contract with a demon to bring her back to life. I’d been too focused on the fight to notice Will’s presence. If he’d followed the Madam and I home after disposing of the Watchdog’s fiend and tried to make me leave my lady’s side, I’d have killed him. Better him than Angelina.

Once my shoulders stop shuddering, throat raw with crying, I gasp at the crazy idea that comes to mind. I don’t know if anyone collected hers, but even shinigami have Cinematic Records. Watching my own would require an act of self-mutilation, but there’s nothing I wouldn’t do to see her smile again. With grim resolve, I rummage through my Academy paraphernalia until I find my trainee scythes. The handheld sickles gleam dangerously in the wan moonlight. These will be easier to use than my safety scissors.

I grit my teeth and slash the skin of my wrist open. A thin line of blood wells up, and with it, my recent memories compacted as Cinematic Record start to play.

_“I will not yield this time!” Her ladyship roars, face contorted in anger as she confronts her nephew. The demon I have pinned to the wall jerks out of my grip, almost losing his arm to my hungry scythe in the process. I whirl around in time to see his claw-like fingers closing in on my love’s pale neck. Before I can materialize at her side, the Phantomhive brat commands his demon to stop as Madam Red’s hand freezes before she can deliver the fatal blow._

_“What are you doing?” I demand. “Kill him already!” If he lives, we’ll be caught!_

No, that’s too recent. I pause the Cinematic Record and make a deeper incision in my arm.

 _She is the center of attention, which comes as no surprise. I salivate over both her clothes and the body bursting from them. Her red gown is one I’d love to wear, but alas, servants don dull colours. My mistress truly shines even amidst the fancy costumes of the ball-goers. She laughs and gossips with members of the gentry, the Chinese man by her side._ He _is not her lover;_ I _am. But I can’t reveal my jealousy in front of the perceptive demon. I’m sure he has sensed that I’m a shinigami, but he hasn’t confronted me about it. We both pretend to be humans, masking our true species and intentions. I do enjoy mysteries, but if he interferes with my lady’s affairs, he’ll suffer._

_“Grell,” Angelina says, placing her empty wineglass in my hand. “Refill my glass.”_

_“Yes, Madam.” I incline my head and disappear into the crowd, recognizing her code-words that we had planned earlier. If a woman is killed while my lady is at the party, she will be above suspicion. The demon is busy helping his master inspect another Jack the Ripper suspect who is hosting this party, so I materialize into a dark alley of Whitechapel to do her bidding._

That memory isn’t nearly far enough back. I clamp my teeth and swallow back a moan as I slice open my wrist until my scythe is plunged nearly a half-inch deep into my skin.

_She opens the door and escorts me into her London townhouse without saying a word of welcome. Angelina sinks into a velvet chair and begins to wring out her bloody hair. I wonder if she’s being silent because of regret, or worse, fear of the shinigami standing beside her._

_“A penny for your thoughts, Madam.”_

_“Bring me a basin of water, and scissors while you’re at it. My hair is so soaked with blood that I might as well chop it all off.”_

Just a little…further…

_“I get to reap in Whitechapel~!” I sing, flipping through the recent updates to my Death List. “There’s an awful lot of death here. I’m excited to see what the drama’s about!”_

_Ronnie, my orange-headed coworker, shrugs. “The East End is too dirty for my tastes. Anyway, demons would rather scavenge in a slum than in a city, and spending time in the infirmary is lame.”_

_“If you were stronger, you wouldn’t have to worry about fiends injuring you,” I chide. “And don’t be such a snob towards my district; humans who live there have sensational lives. It’s like watching a penny novel!”_

Yes, that’s where I want to start. That is the day I first encountered the Madam, so it’s a perfect place to start watching my Cinematic Records. I ignore the throbbing pain in my gushing arm and let my memories of her glide through my mind once again.

***


	2. Chapter 2

Whitechapel, London, England. Wednesday, August 1, 1888. 1:15 A.M.

I scratch the time and date onto a piece of parchment tucked inside my Death List. Filling out paperwork is always a bore, but it’ll be much more productive if I do so while waiting for my soul to be ready to reap. William should be proud. Tonight is a usual London summer night, a humidity that sinks to your very bones. The stench of rotting garbage and decaying animal flesh wafts up to the church-tower that I am perched on. The only humans about are those, as they call it, ‘on the game’; women selling their bodies for three pence. And more than a few drunks stumble to some bush or doorstep, pull a scavenged newspaper over their faces, and start to snore.

I shift position and rest my back against the gleaming spire, but that doesn’t stave off my boredom. I’d expect a drunken brawl to occur any second, but the night is silent except for the faint groans and conversations emanating from people’s half-closed windows. And here I thought it would be worthwhile to show up twenty minutes early to my reaping.

My perceptive eyes latch onto the movement, a blot on the end of the alley advancing towards me. What need could someone have for riding a horse through a red-light district at one in the morning? The rider brings the horse to a stop underneath my church and ties it to a broken lamppost that doesn’t emanate light as the glass has been shattered. The figure steps down from the horse and strokes its mane. “Shh, Lycoris,” She warns as the horse nickers. “You’ve been a good boy, but you need to be silent.” She offers a sugar cube to her animal to placate him. “It’ll be just a little while until I get back.”

Intrigued, I snap my binder shut and tuck it under my arm then begin to follow her. Whatever her plans are, they’ll certainly be entertaining.

I don’t have to be human to recognize that she doesn’t belong here. For one, it’s the way she walks, each step full of grave dignity, confident and bordering on arrogance. Her clothes aren’t rags and don’t have any patches, instead being a beautiful red jacket and skirt. I’ve been watching humans long enough to surmise that she is a wealthy woman, perhaps even one who carries a title. Viscountess? Her hair is a bright red that matches the shade of mine, neatly braided into a bun. Her lipstick is applied perfectly, making her plump lips shine. The women who usually prowl about this late at night have rouge smeared across their cheeks until they look like clowns. This lady is obviously not a streetwalker.

But she has come to kill one.

I almost squeal when I catch sight of the hunting knife tucked into the glove of her right hand. I would never expect such a beautiful lady to be a murderer. Perhaps her beauty is her alibi; constables would rather worship such a woman than suspect her. If I could reveal myself, I’d ask what her motive is. I burn to know what it took to make her bloodthirsty. She’s probably the reason that a soul is on my list tonight.

The woman strides up to a door and raps on it sharply. I watch from the roof of a building adjacent. Even if she looked right at me, the darkness is too absolute for human’s eyes to detect my presence. The sign indicates that the building is a dosshouse, so whoever lives here is poor. Perhaps a relative or a friend? But the time and her knife indicates that this is no ordinary social visit. She waits a few seconds before pounding on the door again.

“Have off!” A female voice calls from inside. “Me fee was already paid. If you want me company, call again tomorrow. Can one not rest aroun’ here?”

“You misunderstand, Ms. Black. I’m Dr. Angelina Dalles and came to make sure you are recovering properly.” Angelina has not only extraordinary beauty but intelligence too; female doctors are rare flowers. How admirable. We are women with similar traits, so I’m sure we’d get along well. But as she’s human, I can never talk to her.

After a short silence, the door opens cautiously and a black-haired young woman peers at the red-head, flickering candle in her hand. “Dr. Dalles? Whaddaya want? I don’ got no money for another check-up.”

“Of course,” Angelina replies smoothly. “Routine check-ups are included with the fee you have already paid. Since this is confidential, I have to ask: are you alone now?”

“See, I wouldna be, but Lizzy chased me man away. That filthy bit-oh, excuse me, doctor. But why visit at such an ungodly hour?” Ms. Black opens the door wider and readjusts the lace shawl covering her nightgown.

Angelina smiles coldly. The younger woman is taken aback by her change in expression and frowns uncertainly. “This way, Ms. Black, there is no witness,” She says, voice darkening with each syllable. Angelina’s pupils dilate and shadows descend over her face, making her expression sinister. “An eye for an eye, like the Bible says. You do read your Bible like a good little lady, don’t you?” Her voice is dangerous and perverse, bordering on craziness.

Ms. Black lets out a whimper and tries to run away, but Angelina grabs her hair and shoves a handkerchief into her mouth. The desperate gagging sounds she makes just widens Angelina’s smile. Ms. Black tries to push her away, but when the doctor flourishes her dagger, she freezes with wide, frightened eyes. “Naughty little whores deserve death. Childbirth is a blessing, and instead of being grateful for your gift, you murdered your child!”

With this proclamation, Angelina stabs her victim’s throat. Instead of trying to sever the head from the body-which is a difficult task for humans-she has sliced Ms. Black’s jugular vein. Within minutes, she’ll be dead. An efficient death, albeit a short one.

 _Death from bloodloss,_ I scratch into my Death List. _Murdered by Angelina Dalles._

Ms. Black’s body loses its strength and collapses onto the pavement while blood spurts from her neck like a fountain. Her fingers uncurl and the candle rolls from them but its flame is doused by her blood. The doctor uses her boot to push the woman back into her room as she stills, becoming a corpse. 1:35 A.M., right on time. After checking to see that her pulse has stopped, Angelina removes the handkerchief gag. Quietly shutting the door, she wipes her knife with the handkerchief then tucks both into her glove, displaying no emotion. I watch as she calmly walks back to the lamppost, mounts her horse, and is swallowed by the night. No one would suspect her of murder; she’s left no possessions to indict her and her clothes aren’t blood-stained.

“Bravo, Angelina.” I clap slowly, relishing the dramatic sound of each patter, the sound as pleasing as her voice. “It’s so refreshing to watch a lady kill. I only hope that you aren’t caught. Perhaps we’ll meet again.” Smiling, I leap down from the building to enter Ms. Black’s residence.

My hands itch until I’m finally able to summon my scythe. I stand over the body with blood pooled under her throat with my revved chainsaw and plunge the weapon into her stomach. Because her soul has already vacated, no wound will mark her body, and instead her Cinematic Records wind around my legs. There hasn’t been a human in our lifetimes worthy of allowing more than their allotted lifespan, but browsing through their Records is company procedure before returning to the Library.

Eliza Black was orphaned at sixteen and had a sister whose pneumonia was so bad that she couldn’t work, let alone get out of bed. Their father drowned at sea and their mother waded into the ocean until waves buried her. Eliza was too distraught over her parents’ death to continue her delicate task of patchwork, and her mom wasn’t there to coax her on. But money was a necessity to pay the doctor’s bills and to feed her sister. Eliza had always been pretty, so it wasn’t too hard to pick up men on the street instead. They treated her roughly and she felt defiled afterwards, but at least it kept her sister alive.

When she unintentionally became pregnant, Eliza knew that she wouldn’t be able to raise a baby in those conditions-especially one created without love-so she had asked Angelina, a doctor working at a Whitechapel women and children’s clinic, to abort her unborn child. When Angelina refused to perform the illegal procedure, Eliza had flung herself down the stairs sobbing until she thought her baby was dead. Each bruise was deserved for the precious life she was destroying…but it was better than watching her child starve. After Angelina killed Eliza, her sister will surely die too with no one to provide for her. I yawn, reeling the Cinematic Records into my scythe. No further comments.

Angelina’s Cinematic Records are sure to be interesting. What could drive a rich, intelligent woman to risk _everything_ by murdering her patients? What kind of past would result in a heart so cold that the murder of a fellow woman results in no tears or shock? If she kills again, I’ll be watching with glee.

 

The entire week I’ve been waiting for this day that Angelina’s name again appears in my Death List. Distracted as I was by my upcoming encounter with my favorite lady murderess, I mindfully collected all the souls I was allotted, so now I can sit back and enjoy the show.

My ears register the chestnut horse’s heavy breaths at quarter to two. I close my raunchy paperback (I didn’t know how early she’d arrive) and stand, eyes swiveling from a church’s bell-tower to latch onto the rider and horse. Blanketed by darkness, Angelina leads her horse to a tree in an empty park and ties him to an overhanging branch. She walks purposefully over the cobblestones, each step bringing her farther away from the church I perch on. I leap to the next roof and make powerful strides to catch up to her hustling figure.

A constable makes his rounds in a street adjacent to her. She’s not going to see him before he’s upon her, and then she’ll be searched for breaking curfew. I debate intervening, knowing that when he finds the dagger tucked in her glove, the consequences will be disastrous for my favorite murderess…Alerted by his swinging lantern, Angelina halts and ducks into a shop’s doorway. He continues ambling down the street, whistling _My Fair Lady_ , oblivious to the criminal that was mere meters from him.

Letting out a relieved breath, Angelina turns and slows her walk until she reaches a nondescript lodging house. The sign reads George Yard Buildings. As she enters the building, I leap onto its roof, ears attuned to chatter from within. One of the only people awake in the building, she knocks on a door that no one opens. Giving up, she exits George Yard and rummages through a nearby trash bin until she finds an old newspaper. Propping herself near the entrance, Angelina spreads the newsprint over her face and breathes slowly. I surmise that she is pretending to be asleep. It’d be more expedient to search for the person she means to kill, but I suppose humans can’t sense the presence of souls near them.

I perch on my heels on the edge of the roof. If I extended my arm my fingertips would brush her red hair. The Shinigami Manual warns us that exposing ourselves to humans is unnecessary. It’s alright to frequent human parks and pubs, but explaining our purpose as reapers will cause panic. So when we’re standing on buildings or trees or carriages, we should be as silent as possible.

The next ten minutes are as boring as they are silent. I left my novel on that church so all I can do is watch Angelina’s bosom rise and fall repetitively. A strange stirring starts low in my stomach at the sight of her perfect pale, round chest. Envy, I suppose, for not every girl is gifted with such a chest.

She tosses the newspaper aside and rises when her ears register the footsteps. “Martha Tabram, I’ve been waiting for you.”

“Why…if it isn’t Doctor Dalles!” The brunette exclaims. She is far older than the first tart, lines of age creasing her face. Her beauty has been diminished over the years and her roughly-applied makeup worsens the effect. “What a surprise! To what do I owe this vis-? Ah!” Angelina presses her knife against the older woman’s throat. “Have you gone mad?” Martha gasps.

“Quiet,” Angelina barks, increasing the pressure of her weapon and drawing a thin line of blood across her throat. “Tonight, I’ll send your soul to hell, as far away from your child as can be.”

“Oh, it’s about that, is it?” Martha frowns in disgust then unexpectedly kicks out at Angelina. The red-head hits the wall, head snapping back. She groans with pain and sinks to the ground. I cover my mouth so the gasp is inaudible. Fight, Angelina! “Tell me, Doctor, how could I raise a child like this? The money they pay me isn’t nearly enough. Thought you would kill me, didja? Think you’re so much more holy just because you were born with a silver spoon in your mouth?” Martha spits at the Doctor’s head and grasps the doorknob of George Yard Buildings. “I could hurt you, but that would be stooping to your level. I’ll report you and then you’ll be locked away. Not so holy now, eh?”

Martha doesn’t see Angelina’s smirk, nor the shadow as she stands back up. She tightens her grip on the dagger and lunges at Martha’s back. Angelina must have been pretending to be hurt to make Martha relax. The Doctor’s intelligence has been proven yet again. The prostitute stiffens, hand cradling her wound. Blood drips over her thick fingers. Angelina stabs her knuckles and darts back as Martha swings around and tries to hit her.

Martha watches Angelina warily as she is circled by the predator. Martha presses her back against the wooden door and raises her fists defensively. The red-head darts forward and simultaneously kicks Martha’s crotch while stabbing her stomach. She buries the knife up to its hilt and twists, blood pooling around the wound and dripping over her manicured hands. Martha screams in agony but musters enough energy to smack her opponent’s face. The doctor stumbles back, unsteady on her heels, and collides with the pavement. Grab the knife, quick! Whoever has it has the advantage!

Clutching the dagger, Martha tries to pull it out of her stomach. The pain proves to be too much and she slumps to the ground, panting. Angelina finally regains her balance, so she tugs at her weapon until it pops out of the older woman, the blade slick with blood. One hand instinctively covers the wound but Martha grasps Angelina’s throat with the other. She starts to choke as Martha squeezes, and her grip on the knife loosens until it clatters out of her hands, leaving a trail of blood droplets squelching in its wake.

Angelina’s throat is mottled with red in the shape of chubby fingerprints by the time Martha’s grip slackens, immobilized with pain from her gushing wound. Angelina doubles over, gasping for breath, massaging her raw neck. The weapon is just out of Martha’s reach. “Just die already,” Angelina spits, swiping the knife from the ground and gouging Martha’s stomach again. A scream tears from one woman’s throat, a merciless laugh from the other. Fat tears splash down Martha’s face, mingling with the blood pouring from her wound, both women streaked in red. “Oh, shut it, you old boor. _I’m_ the one that God is pitying.”

I’m too distracted by Angelina’s knifing to puzzle over her statement. Martha winces and moans with each new wound as Angelina stabs her stomach, chest, and groin. The victim’s will to fight leaves her body with each blood droplet sinking into the cobblestones. Angelina cuts the woman like a butcher tearing apart a calf, unflinchingly and rapidly. Red liquid stains the doctor’s face and arms. Her slick dagger slips out of her grip and splashes in the puddle of blood.

Martha’s head lolls to the side so Angelina doesn’t bother to check that her pulse has stopped. The tart is so full of holes that she looks like an empty pincushion. Angelina tucks the knife in her glove again, using the handkerchief to wipe clean her arms, throat, and face. The bloodstains on her fabric will take a few washings to remove, and her hair will need to be thoroughly scrubbed by a maid before it resumes its normal shade. The servants in her house will have a lot of work tonight. I wonder how much they know of their mistresses’ nighttime affairs and how many pounds it took to swear them to secrecy.

Angelina begins to walk away, so I leap from the building and swipe my scythe through Martha’s stomach. Ignoring the Cinematic Records snapping at my arms, I push the prone woman into the building so the murderer is thought to be one of its residents. I mop the blood from the door and the pavement with my necktie until the white is rendered invisible, lending a hand to my favored murderess. The pungent smell of blood makes me want to hack apart my own prostitute. Reeling the Records into my scythe and dematerializing the chainsaw, I remember my novel left on the church-tower and go to collect it. Before I head home, I notice Angelina collapsed on the ground, panting. Did her conscience make her knees buckle?

Against my better judgment (although Will would insist that I don’t possess one of those), my grip loosens on the spire and gravity pulls me towards the cobblestones. My knees bend and cushion the impact, red hair whipping around my face. I can’t let Angelina suffer, for she did nothing wrong. Vengeance is as natural as love. “You’ve made my district ever so jam-packed with deaths,” I declare.

Her eyes meet mine at the sound of the impact, but they are unseeing. Angelina’s trembling hand fishes the dagger out of her glove to ward me off. I cradle the shuddering woman, gloved hand stroking her feathery hair. “Don’t worry. I’m on your side,” I whisper, protectively resting my head on hers. She closes her eyes, slowly lowering the knife to her lap. “I understand, Lady Dalles. I understand the pain you have. You must be killing those woman, so carelessly throwing away the gift of a child, because you cannot birth one of your own. I’m right, aren’t I?” A tear glistens under her left eyelid that I gently wipe away with a thumb.

“It’s alright. You did nothing wrong,” I reassure her softly. “The death those horrible broads received was far less than they deserved. I too cannot birth a child, for am I lady who happens to be physically male. We share these problems and secrets. Humans would consider your murders to be crimes, but I’m not human; I’m a grim reaper. I’ll help you, Angelina. You don’t have to kill alone anymore. I, Miss Grell Sutcliffe, shinigami extraordinaire, am on your side.” I did not come reaping tonight with the plan to join Angelina-I didn’t pack my wardrobe or makeup-but this is surprisingly satisfactory. Illegal by both human and shinigami standards, yes, but this is one adventure I’ll always cherish.

Angelina is silent, thumbs stroking her bloody dagger. “A grim reaper,” She repeats, finally voicing a thought.

I grin, sharp teeth gleaming in the dim lamplight, and stand up, materializing my scythe excitedly. “Isn’t my chainsaw so beautiful~?” At Angelina’s stricken expression, I’m quick to explain, “I won’t hurt _you_ with it. It’s for viewing the memories of human souls and transporting them back to our shinigami home, the Library. We have Death Lists with the times and places of human deaths, and we have to collect their souls before a demon does. It’s such a dramatic job, watching people die over and over again and doing nothing to stop it. But I was getting a _teensy_ bit restless with the monotonous deaths...until you came along.”

I close my hand and notice her blink at the sudden disappearance of my scythe. “I can also materialize-transport from one place to another instantaneously. With these powers, no one will realize who is behind your murders.” I turn away, hair spilling over my shoulders and tumbling down my back, a practiced move. “Of course, if you’d rather work alone, I can return to the Library. You’ll probably be publicly executed once you’re caught…but if you don’t need my help, that’s your choice, Miss Angelina.” I tilt my head, smirking, my expression shielded from her gaze.

“…Miss Grell, was it? I’m sorry; I’m in a bit of shock right now. This is obviously an unexpected turn of events, so forgive me for being unresponsive. Your offer is very kind, and I’m grateful that you’ll protect me. Together, we can kill more of those whores than I planned to.” I face the doctor and watch her expression turn vicious again. Yes, I definitely like this woman. She stashes her weapon away and stands. “Let’s see…you’ll have to be my servant. That’s the best way to explain your presence at my side.”

“You want me to live with you?” I interrupt, gleaning her intention. “But that would mean leaving my job, my friends, and pretending to be human…”

“That’s the sacrifice you’d make. But if I’m caught, my sacrifice would be my life. And I deserve to live so much more than those broads.” I nod, agreeing with her. “The best way for you to protect me is to always be with me. You can let me know if I’m being watched or suspected, and you can perform killings in my stead. Although you are the one helping me, let’s not forget that I killed those two woman on my own. _I_ am the one in charge here.”

“That’s a tall order for a human to a reaper,” I say, amused.

Angelina’s eyes flash. “Are you defying me, servant?”

An unexpected tremor shoots down my spine. “N-no, Angelina,” I answer, playing along, a slight smile on my lips.

“And you call yourself a lady?”

As she triggers my intense vexation, the smile drops from my face. “I don’t know what you mean, but I _am_ a lady.”

“Then where are you manners?” Angelina continues, gently chiding me. I relax as I realize the intent of her rebuke. “You don’t call your mistress by her first name. You can call me ‘my lady’ or ‘Madam Red.’ Alright, Grell?”

“Yes, my lady,” I acquiesce with a nod. The words, although new, seem to fit and roll off my tongue. “I’m sorry for misspeaking.”

“Good, you’re trainable,” She replies as if I’m a pet. “Now, it’s getting awfully late and we don’t want that constable to pass us before we leave. Lycoris can hold the both of us, so follow me.” She turns and heads to her horse without looking back to ascertain my presence. After mounting the chestnut, she offers a hand to pull me up. My gangly fingers fold around her petite gloved hand and a warmth washes through me.

On the ride to her house, my first time on a horse, I lose myself to the sensations. The horse’s sleek rump moves underneath mine with each step on the loose cobblestones. The Madam’s chest expands and contracts with each breath of hers, each exhalation soft like the morning breeze. My arms wrap around her waist, pressed against the firmness of her build and the rich fabric she dons. A gust of wind swirls the refuse left on the streets, newspapers flapping past the horse’s legs and rubbish being trampled underneath, while lifting tendrils of my hair. The scent of blood still lingers on her body that I inhale like a spicy perfume.

Night slowly draws up the curtains and humans begin to stir. It’s not early enough to wander about the streets, but it is time to change a baby’s diapers or make love before their children awake or splash water over their face and hope their headache will abate before they head to work or even return home before they are caught near the prostitute they murdered.

When we arrive, her ladyship fishes a key out of her jacket and unlocks the door after settling Lycoris in for the night. She opens the door and escorts me into her London townhouse without saying a word of welcome. Angelina sinks into a velvet chair and begins to wring out her bloody hair. I wonder if she’s being silent because of regret, or worse, fear of the shinigami standing beside her.

“A penny for your thoughts, Madam.”

“Bring me a basin of water, and scissors while you’re at it. My hair is so soaked with blood that I might as well chop it all off.”

“It’s so beautiful though…” I sigh, going off to fetch the implements she desires. After a few minutes of confusion, I return to the room. I would have asked a servant for help, but they are probably at her main residence in lieu of the planned murders, another incident proving Angelina’s intelligence. “I’m sorry, but I don’t know where you keep anything. Can you please give me a tour of your house, my lady?”

Angelina sighs. “That can wait until tomorrow, as can questions or conversation or normal introductions. I’ll get the scissors myself and then I’ll head to bed. This night has been very tiring.” She stands up, hair unbraided and framing her face in a glorious, bloody mass as she points down a hallway. “Your room is at the end of this corridor on the left side. Good night, Grell.”

“Good night, my lady,” I reply courteously with a practiced curtsy. She smiles tightly, delineating lines of stress on her face, and wearily shuffles to another room as I leave her sight.

The room she has selected for me is furnished elegantly but still seems barren. I get the sense that it is unlived in. A pang of longing for my room in the Library hits me, its red walls and mouth-watering wardrobe and conglomeration of cosmetics pleasing my eyes each time I wake. But at home, the drama is miniscule compared to a human doctor killing tarts without detection. I’m so excited to lend my artistry to mutilating human bodies, blood the best paint any woman could ask for. There’ll be plenty of deliciously macabre pictures to add to my collection~!

This wardrobe is unstocked. I sigh, hoping Angelina plans a shopping trip into London tomorrow. I suppose I could stop back home and grab the most necessary dresses, but the Madam must remain secret. There is no question that what I am going to involve myself in is antithetic to the Shinigami Rulebook. However, with my work record, I’m sure I won’t be suspended for _too_ long. If the Madam is caught… _when_ she’s caught…I’ll be my normal chainsaw-slinging, red-obsessed gorgeous shinigami Dispatch woman instead of a murderess’s servant. But she’s such an interesting human that I’ll protect her for as long as I can.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are probably more victims of Jack the Ripper than are credited, but Martha Tabram was one of the first to be killed. She actually died from 39 stab wounds. I think a horse explains how Angelina was able to escape the scene without being caught before Grell could help her. Lycoris is a red flower that, according to An's "love" Vincent Phantomhive, matches the color of her hair. They are the same that are featured in the third Kuroshitsuji musical, "Lycoris That Blazes the Earth" (go watch it! Akane Liv is an amazing Madam Red and Uehara Takuya is the embodiment of Grell. Although idk if it has been subtitled yet).  
> 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it's taking me so long to update! I'm either working or hanging out with friends or writing my novel, but this fic is important to me, so I am still working on it.  
> It's probably going to be around ten chapters and I've almost reached the canon Jack the Ripper arc.

Accustomed to the leisure of beauty sleep as I am, being jolted awake is an awfully unpleasant occurrence. I shove the offending objects off my chest and place a hand over my eyes to shield them from the light. “Ronnie, dear, haven’t I told you before how rude it is to wake a lady? I don’t reap today, so scurry off.”

“Have you forgotten yourself?” A soft female voice asks.

Surprised, I sit up to meet my guest. In a few seconds I remember where I lay, a guest bedroom of Angelina’s, hidden from shinigami. The early hours grate on my nerves, added to the fact that my uniform has wrinkles since I slept in it and my unbraided hair is more matted than usual. But as I am an actress, I’ll keep my annoyance hidden from my mistress as is a servant’s duty. “My apologies, Madam, but I didn’t expect to be waken so early.”

“When the sun rises, so doth a servant,” She reprimands. “I had to prepare my morning tea myself, which is now your duty. I expect you to adapt to my schedule tomorrow. I am going riding now, and will be back in an hour or two. When I return, I expect refreshments to be prepared. Also, decide what the lunch menu will be. Wash my clothes from last night, and wear the new clothes that I’ve bought for you. Are you capable of these tasks?”

“What time is it?” I ask, suppressing a yawn. It’s too early for such an onslaught of information.

“A quarter to seven,” She answers. No wonder I’m so tired; I don’t usually wake for another hour! “I assume you can handle those tasks?”

“Refreshments…lunch menu, and…washing your clothes?” I repeat, hiding a grimace. I didn’t expect her to assign me such dull tasks. In the Library, shinigami still in the Academy do our wash, and I leave the cooking to Eric. I’d rather follow the path of tarts that we’ll kill. But she’s my mistress so I mustn’t complain.

“And wearing your new uniform. We’ll see if it needs to be tailored.”

“Yes, my lady,” I reply, mentally sighing. Her taste in clothes is exceptional, but that’ll be dampened by doing chores. Hopefully I can finish them quickly yet still up to her standards.

Angelina smiles, wearing a shade of lipstick darker than yesterday’s to match with her more subdued outfit. Her collar is buttoned high to hide her throttled throat because her hair isn’t now long enough to do the job. She daintily rests her black-gloved fingers on the silver doorknob. “Adieu, Miss Grell.” I shiver inside at the way her voice traces my name.

After she leaves, I debate whether to sleep for another hour or get to work on her tasks. Sleeping, while the most pleasant choice, is definitely not the smartest. I have to be presentable in front of my lady and it would be disastrous if I was still brushing my hair when she returns instead of setting out her tea. I sit up in bed, stretching as the sunlight caresses my chin. I wonder if anyone noticed my absence yet. No, they would assume that I had an early morning reaping today. I flip open my Death List, deciding to forego my reaping this afternoon. That’ll alert Management that something is wrong, but her ladyship most likely won’t permit to wander off on my own task when she’s the one I now tend to.

I turn my attention to the clothes that I shoved onto the floor. Holding a long black jacket against my chest, I frown in contemplation. I expected flamboyant red but these colours are positively dreary. The slacks are plain too, and I freeze when I notice strands of brown hair. She can’t possibly expect me to wear…a _wig_?

No. I’m simply not going to wear it. She can’t make me cover my perfect hair with such an ugly object. Even for the purposes of disguise, that’s going too far. I shudder at what I hope is a joke of hers. I didn’t realize that her sense of humor is so galling.

My fingers pull off my bowtie and suit-jacket then speedily unbutton my waistcoat. No matter how much I loathe this company-enforced uniform, at least the colours are personalized as is my jacket, and when I don’t work I can change into one of my beloved dresses. But a servant never has an off day. I remind myself that the killings are worth it to ward off my mental cringe.

After donning my new servant attire, I frown at my reflection in the mirror. The clothes reek of weariness and are only suitable for men’s mourning attire, not a lady’s daily wear! Even though everything fits and I can’t complain about scratchy fabrics, this uniform is not flattering on a lady. Coupled with my flyaway hair and lack of makeup, I am definitely not presentable. The Madam’s tasks can wait; I have to stop by my bedroom to grab my brush and eyeshadow before starting to work.

In a few seconds I’m again in my bedroom, the familiar sight comforting and grounding me. Now is not the time to get nostalgic, however. I must leave before anyone notices me; it’s not usual for me to be up so early. Alan and his male amour are usually the ones stuck with morning reapings. And if I take the time to put on makeup _here_ , I’ll spend the entire morning in front of the mirror, displeasing the Madam.

Just as I reach for my hairbrush, a knock startles me. I almost drop the hairbrush but catch myself. “Grell? I know it’s early, so I apologize if I’m interrupting your sleep, but I just got back from a reaping and _really_ need to talk to you. I swear I wouldn’t interrupt if it wasn’t important.” I materialize inside my wardrobe, hidden behind thick dresses, just as Alan opens my door.

Alan pauses when he notices that my bed is empty. “Huh, I guess she’s not here,” He mumbles aloud. I stop breathing and hope he’ll leave without noticing my hiding spot. After a few seconds, my brunette coworker sighs and gently closes the door. I wait until his footsteps have diminished before hurriedly shoving my makeup and hairbrush into a woven basket. Slinging the basket over my shoulder, I push up my window and slip through the hole, landing outside. Now that I have other materials I can’t materialize back to Angelina’s house.

How am I going to find where she lives now?

Materializing there is easy enough, but I don’t know the route to her house on foot. I could check through the Collections room, but her death might not be recorded yet, and Collections workers don’t allow other divisions to intrude. I could also ask her hospital where Doctor Dalles’ address is, but I don’t know where she works.

Oh, there is an easy solution. I set down my supplies and materialize back to her house. From there, I leap onto the roof and survey this part of London. My mind uses the church spires to add her house to my mental map of the city. It only takes a minute for me to materialize again, grab the basket, and run across rooftops to her house. Shinigami have it so much easier than humans.

Another half-hour drains away while I hurriedly brush out my hair and apply a light dusting of makeup to my face. Even with the makeup, my gender would be ambiguous in these dark clothes if not for my stuffed corset. I’ll stand out more for cross-dressing as a male, so Madam should just let me be her maid. I suppose butlers are more useful, but I am not a typical woman.

About forty-five minutes after she has left, I start Angelina’s tasks. She told me to…get out refreshments, plan lunch, put on my uniform, and wash her clothes. That is not something that can be completed in fifteen minutes. Even an hour probably won’t be enough, especially since I haven’t done tasks like these myself since I was in the Academy. But it’s better to admit that I started working too late rather than lying to her. If it was Will, I’d pull one of my ready excuses out of my purse, but somehow I value this human’s opinion more.

I decide to start with the washing, which I’ve had the most experience with. I once dreamed of being a seamstress, but my inability at sewing forced me to turn to clothes-shopping as an expensive and dearly-loved hobby instead. If I have a needle in my hand the urge to stab someone with it has left even Alan with a hiatus on my sewing classes. I get so frustrated when putting a lot of energy into something without seeing a quick return; reaping a human’s soul is much more rewarding than stitching threads. The point being that Academy neophytes didn’t know how to wash my dresses with their delicate fabrics, so I had to learn to scrub out blood stains on my own. This is useful as the Madam’s dress is surely caked in blood from the night before.

I find my way to Angelina’s bedroom, clothes haphazardly strewn on the floor. A scene like this could be one from a penny novel; the heroine’s clothes were torn off by the prince who simply _ravaged_ her the night before. In the morning, the servants gather her clothes and wash the bloody bedsheets, gossiping all the while, but secretly envious of the expansive bedroom and love shared by their mistress and master.

It takes all my self-restraint not to rummage through Angelina’s wardrobe. The corner of my eye catches gleaming pendants resting on her boudoir. A servant has no right to touch her lady’s finery unless instructed to do so, of course. I am quite aware of proper human etiquette; after all, during my heartrendingly lonely teenage years I would often blend into the human crowd to forget the discrepancy between my gender and body and the resulting ostracization. But I never woke up as a girl. I stopped praying.

It is a female trait to be so reminiscent. I do have a job to do, and I’d better focus. Bloody clothes folded over my arms, I wander around her labyrinthine townhouse until I happen upon the kitchen. The washing tub sits in the corner and is soon filled with water. There is no time for boiling it; this’ll have to do. Tying my hair back in a long ponytail, I press her dress against the washboard and scrub it with lye soap. The repetitive motion calms me, dispelling the creeping anxiety from past memories. I hum to myself, a tune Alan sings under his breath when he gets into his sewing. I splash kerosene over the bloodstains, continue scrubbing, and rinse the clothes off when the stains are obliterated like the women my Lady killed.

After about a half hour, Madam’s outfit from the previous night has been scrubbed and wrung out. I smile in between taking clothes pins out of my mouth and hanging laundry outside on the line. I feel so maternal during such an activity, a wife doing the washing while her husband smokes a pipe and reads the newspaper. I’d have to gently steer my children away from their busy mother…but the outfit is all wrong! I should be wearing a checkered dress and a stained apron, not a tailored suit! I hope Angelina can satisfactorily address this grievance.

I gasp when Angelina’s figure becomes visible some distance away, the horse bringing its mistress back home. I’m not ready for her return! What else was I supposed to do…prepare a snack? Humans and shinigami eat the same foods, so that’s not a problem, but she expects a fancier dish than I’m able to prepare. Also, I don’t remember what hors d’oeuvres are appropriate for tea time; it has been a while since I have had the luxury to prepare such a snack. In the Library, I’d go to Alan for these types of questions, but in this situation I have to figure out everything on my own. Speaking of Alan, I wonder what he wanted to ask me earlier.

I don’t have time to deliberate! Knowing that she’ll be inside the house in about five minutes, I materialize back inside her kitchen and throw open the larder. No, what am I thinking? There isn’t time to roast a duck, and I don’t know what spices to use anyway. If I can make basic tea, that’ll give me time to explain my procrastination. Flustered, I frantically gather her fine china and set it on a tray. My hands snatch the sugar cubes and tea kettle but accidentally knock a cup from the platter in my haste.

The teacup shatters over Madam Red’s kitchen floor just as the door opens and she steps inside.

My trimmed nails dig into the skin of my palm as I wait for her reprimand, resisting my body’s scream to materialize out of this mess. Nervous sweat rolls down my back as she lets the tension build up, taking a carefully-placed step towards me, dragging her riding crop behind her like a poisonous snake. Angelina purses her lips in thought. “That china would be worth more than your wages, if this was a paid position,” She points out. “My my, Grell, you have made a large mistake. Perhaps you are unfit for the duties of my butler?”

I flinch. “No, Madam. I’m sorry, but-”

“You may not argue with or question your mistress,” the Madam interrupts. “I think that you need to be punished.”

I quiver in anticipation. “Please,” I breathe.

Angelina blinks, surprised.

“Please,” I repeat. “Punish me. Make me bleed.” I lick my lips and shiver, eyes latching onto her riding crop.

My mistress’ mouth forms a perfect O as she follows my trail of vision. Registering her shock, I drop my gaze, cheeks warm. “I’m sorry, I…I shouldn’t have said that,” I backtrack before she becomes disgusted with me and tells me to leave. “I have an unnatural craving for pain. I regret making my lady uncomfortable-”

“I never thought I’d find someone like you,” Angelina interrupts. Her voice holds wonder instead of disgust, so I meet her eyes again. She is smiling fondly at me. “I’ve seen classmates get belted and it gave me a rush, and I thought, wouldn’t it be fun to do that to someone? But it isn’t proper to have such desires, let alone talk about them. My husband was too conventional for me to broach the topic.” Her prim velvet lips curl up in excitement. “And now my butler tells me she wants to be whipped.”

“Will you?” Her words start a twitching under my slacks.

“I’ll have you screaming for mercy,” She warns.

“My wounds heal faster than humans but I want to be marked. Madam, please, _hurt_ me.”

Her Ladyship commands, “Take off your jacket and shirt.” My breathing deepens as I shake off the new butler outfit. Cold air seeps between the laces of my corset. “Now get on your hands and knees like a dog.”

As soon as I obey my mistress strides over to me and gently strokes my lower back with the crop. The cold metal burr at the tip contrasts with the coarse leather of the twined rope. I tense in anticipation of the first strike. My breathing and heartbeat both accelerate when she lifts the crop from my skin.

It whistles through the air and strikes my bare skin. I gasp, arching my back. To distract myself from the growing bulge against my panties, I focus on the stinging welt on my lower back.

Angelina lifts the crop again then pauses. “We can stop at any time. I won’t be cross with you.”

I shake my head, quivering too much to speak calmly. I moan sharply as she smacks me again in a different spot, two patches of skin throbbing. Angelina giggles softly, perhaps at my noises or with the rush she feels from whipping me. She flicks her arm and I thrust my hips upwards, groaning. “ _More_ ,” I moan.

With each strike, my involuntary noises grow louder and my breathing quickens, back becoming sticky with blood. “Harder.” My arms and legs tremble, straining to hold me up while yearning to buckle from the whipping. “Faster- _unnngh_.”Angelina climaxes with a flurry of lashes causing me to scream as she deepens the wounds.

My arms buckle and I collide with the floor. My back and nether regions throb insistently. Amidst the stinging pain, I feel as if I am floating and a dreamy smile spreads across my face. Although my mistress talks to me, I am too serene to make out her words.

Angelina’s soft hands stroke my hair and I sigh, surrendering myself to the sensations. A few minutes later, tethered once again to the feel of my flushed cheek pressed against the hard floor, I open my eyes and meet hers. Without looking away, my lady lifts the crop to her mouth and flicks her tongue along the end. A bead of my blood glistens at the edge of her lip.

Flushed, I drop my gaze and clear my throat. “Water closet, please.” I need to take care of my unbecoming arousal.

“Can you walk?”

“Not yet,” I answer breathily.

Angelina kisses my forehead then grasps my hands and pulls me to my feet. She wraps an arm around my aching back, being careful to avoid the fresh wounds, before my knees can buckle again. I don’t understand why my heart seems to tumble in my chest at the sight of her smile.

After she shuts the door behind her, I sit on the edge of the toilet seat and pull down my pants. Behind me, an ornate mirror spreads across the wall. The only mirror I keep in my room is for makeup because my naked body is not a welcome sight. Curious to the state of my back, I crane my neck and examine my fresh wounds.

My back is a bloody mess. The very sight brings a hard twinge to my unwanted cock. Closing my eyes, I wrap my hand around the thing tightly and stroke. Usually I’d take care of this quickly and fill my mind with meaningless visions to distract myself from just what is between my legs, but this time a scene replays. Beautiful Angelina bringing a whip to my back. My breathing catches, then I buck into my fist.

“ _Angelina_ ,” I moan unintentionally, my entire body shuddering as I come.

Shocked, I spread my glistening fingers and stare at the fluid accusingly. I’m not supposed to think of my mistress like that. She is both female and a human!

But Angelina is beautiful and lethal and intelligent. She is self-sufficient and so independent that she even chose her job, a chance I never had. Her ladyship’s soul is special. Unforgettable. Nothing about her fits into the status quo. As her servant I’ll protect and please my lady. I want to learn her deepest secrets and tell her mine.

I can’t leave her; I can’t let her dismiss me.

Closing my eyes, I lean forward and clench my sticky fists. I must squelch this sudden and unexpected desire for her before I do anything I’ll regret. She’s just playing with me. Anyone would do. She doesn’t mean this as an invitation.

A cynical smile curls my upper lip. This is ridiculous, Grell. You haven’t fallen in love with a _human_. She’s just the first person who’s ever touched me.

And Madam Red is destined to die.

But I could go rogue, desert everything shinigami stand for. I could change her Cinematic Record by saving her life.

Then we’ll see what this feeling really is.

 


	4. Chapter 4

“How was the whipping?” My lady asks after I nudge the door shut behind me. “Was it nice?”

“Mmm, very,” I hum, the words vibrating pleasantly deep in my throat.

She kneels by the washing tub filled with fresh water and dips a cloth in it. “Come here, Grell. I have to clean your wounds.”

“Shinigami heal faster-”

“I know, but I’m a doctor. I’m going to take care of you,” She interrupts.

“I thought _I_ was supposed to be taking care of _you_ ,” I tease, sitting at her feet and arranging my hair to fall over my shoulders so my back is uncovered.

“Ah, then our arrangement is mutually beneficial.”

I tense when her fingers untie the laces of my corset. “Don’t be surprised that I’m very flat-chested.” When the corset that cinches my waist is removed, my true physically male figure is visible. Angelina thoroughly runs her cloth along the marks on my skin, which gently stings.

“What did you like best? What could I have done better? I don’t want to make you uncomfortable, but if you want to do something like that again we should talk about it.”

“Again?” My mind seems to be short-circuited and I can’t form a response. “That wasn’t a one-time thing?”

“Well, it depends on you.”

Her ladyship finishes washing my back and gently dabs at my raw skin with a soft towel. I wish I could see her expression. “I don’t…” I clear my throat. “I don’t know about your life or what you enjoy or how best I can serve you. We should talk before anything else happens.” The thought of being whipped on a daily basis excites me so much that I fear it can only lead to my heartbreak.

But I don’t love her. It’s only been a day!

“Yes, let’s talk.” Angelina wraps cloth bandages around my back then hands me my bloody corset, which I nimbly lace back up. She indicates that I should sit at a small dining table then rummages through the cupboards. “While you are indisposed, I will prepare something for myself. Do grim reapers eat?”

“Yes, we eat and sleep just like humans.”

I hear the sound of clinking china as she prepares tea. As it is heating, the Madam addresses me. “Perhaps the duties of a butler don’t fall under your repertoire, but you must remain in that guise. It simply won’t do for a widow such as myself to have a spinster woman unseen in the eyes of society to live with me. And the only acceptable man at my abode would be one in servitude.”

“I hate pretending to be a man!” I protest, leaning against my chair before my back aches, warning me that I’m better off not moving right now. I tried pretending during my teenage years, but repressing my femaleness engendered a violence in me that even now will surge up when my coworkers annoy me. “It would be much easier for me to appear as your maid.”

“Miss Sutcliffe, I have thought this through.” Her voice is imperious. “I realize those clothes do not fit a lady’s aesthetics, but it will prevent you from being recognized by other reapers. That is why you must wear the wig too.”

My eyes widen in shock. “I could not possibly wear such a horrendous, sorry excuse for hair!”

“Your natural hair is very recognizable. That won’t do.”

“My hair is precious to me,” I object sullenly, running my hands through the thick red mane.

“And so is my life.” Madam Red sets her teacup down then sits across from me at the servant’s table, eyes searching my face with a sincere expression. “Grell, the reason that you are here, in my house, is because you vowed that you would protect me. I am on a mission of vengeance like an angel of death, removing mothers who would kill their own children from the world of the living. But now that there have been two murders, the papers will start to talk. The constables will be a little more cautious on their night rounds. Being caught would be inevitable without you to protect me. I am trusting you with my life.”

I bow my head slightly in acquiescence. “Forgive me, Madam. I am not accustomed to hiding or to the intricacies of human life. It is an honor to be responsible for yours.” I have not had the opportunity before to give life instead of taking it away. And her imploring crimson eyes are just so beautiful…

Angelina slips my suit jacket over my shoulders, smiling, lips so soft. She inclines her head slightly then changes the topic. “Of course, you are still my servant and will have some duties. I have prepared food for myself since the Baron’s death, so you can do the wash and whatever other tasks you are capable of.”

“I am very skilled when it comes to clothes…well, anything but repairs,” I admit. Determined to prove my usefulness, I continue, “I have expertise in removing blood stains and take very good care of lace and silk. I have an excellent eye when it comes to fashion and coordinating colours, so I can put together great outfits for you, as well as determining what jewelry would fit best. I know what the best shops in London are and can get quality repairs done to your clothing as well as shop for the best accessories. I can shop for anything, really; even food, although my cooking skills are but basic. Furthermore, I can trail prostitutes without their detection so you’ll know the most efficient time to kill them. If you have social engagements I can kill them in your stead.”

“That is most helpful,” Angelina replies. “You can do all those tasks under my jurisdiction; however, I do not require a lady’s maid.” She gestures to another white teacup. “Would you like some tea?”

I’m surprised she doesn’t insist on moving to the dining hall. But I suppose that years of living alone would make even the most high-born woman used to small lapses in social etiquette to make life easier. Easier to sip tea at the servant’s table than carry a meal on the servant’s trolley up the stairs. “Yes, Madam.”

After complimenting her on the tea, I put my arms through the jacket and brush back my hair to look presentable. “Tell me about yourself?” She asks once I am settled.

“I suppose you are curious about my life as a shinigami. Shinigami never meet our families because our lives are about our jobs. Everyone attends school-training for our jobs-throughout our childhood and early adulthood. I was in the Academy during the mid-1700s.”

“You’re immortal?” My mistress interrupts.

I close my eyes. “No. We _can_ die, but we aren’t meant to. Humans cannot kill us, but demons…” I shiver, remembering the massacre in my Academy days where I could do nothing as my friends were torn apart by a single demon. I am still uncertain as to what happened to their souls, and that thought terrifies me more than anything.

“So demons exist too?”

“I wish it were not so, but we are plagued by those bothersome creatures.” I pout cutely. “So much work goes into reaping a single soul, you know? There’s not just the Dispatch on the field but the Administration and Collections who organize every reaping-not to mention whoever adds the souls to our Lists in the first place. It is a very meticulous procedure followed strictly by generations of shinigami to ensure that the cycle of life and death is balanced and that human souls are protected from fiends. Demons get our blood boiling because they steal the souls we’ve worked hard to procure and are such a hassle when it comes to paperwork. Fighting the weaker ones is enjoyable, but there are too many casualties on our side.”

“So what if all shinigami stopped reaping souls? What would happen then?”

“Madam, you are a very intelligent lady. However, my job keeps me very busy so I cannot spare time with the philosophical aspect of it,” I admit.

She leans forward, chin resting on her clasped hands. “You’ve never thought about it?” I shake my head. I’ve spent most time pondering gender, as well as the fashion trends of Britain through the eras. “Well. Do continue.” How can a human voice sound so perfect?

I daintily stir sugar cubes into my Earl Grey tea. “Our lives and our jobs are one and the same. Like I mentioned earlier, there are different divisions. Dispatch is a highly-respected position, but also the most difficult to attain. For training, Will and I-he’s my boss now-had to reap a soul together. Those were the days; throwing that lovely man into a brick wall and being all tied up by Cinematic Records.” I smile dreamily, pointed teeth showing. Madam Red’s eyebrows furrow. “I have some very interesting stories from my schoolgirl days.”

“And how long have you been at your job?” She asks.

“Perhaps double your lifespan. I don’t care to get more specific.” Pursing my lips, I blow the steam away from my hot drink and take a sip. “That’s what I’ve been doing until now. Some humans have very interesting lifestyles, but the majority is ever so dull. Their lives are too average to be colourful. But yours…” I tilt my head, grinning. “Leaving a trail of red in your wake; oh yes, darling, simply beautiful.”

The Madam lowers her gaze demurely. “I hope you have enjoyed the show.”

I perk up. “Why, I do adore theatrics! If I was human I would surely be an actress by now, suited for the role of none another than Juliet.” I wonder when I’ll find my Romeo.

She laughs softly deep in her throat. “Grell, the drama you are seeking is the very thing that we humans avoid. We want quiet, average lives. To fall in love and settle down and wake every day in comfort. Blood and passion are our greatest fears.”

I shake my head. “No, Madam. _You_ are not an average human.” When her eyes widen, I quickly add, “I did not mean offense, but-”

She holds up her hand wrapped in black lace to silence me. “There is no need to apologize. I was merely startled. I…if I had had a normal life, it would be so much easier. When misfortune befell me, the only thing I could do is make others suffer the way I did.”

The silence falls around our shoulders. I gently bring my hand to my lap and catch her eyes. Her intense gaze burns with pain, mine with questions. “Misfortune?” My voice is soft. Her eyes acknowledge my question then slide shut. “Yes…he was beautiful. But it was his kindness that mattered to me; the way he always had a smile and compliment for me. He made me feel special; I, who was plain next to my sister Rachel’s radiant beauty.”

“But Madam, how could another woman be prettier than you?” My lips move without a conscious decision on my part, and the words cause me to blush from embarrassment. But I cannot take them back, for they are true. Shocked, Angelina’s eyes fly open and she evaluates the verity of my statement. She shortly regains her composure and I realize how delicate the balance is between us. For a British woman, talking to another whose place is uncertain is equivalent to gambling. It is a social vice where the stakes are high. If either of us misspeaks, our undefined relationship could shatter like the china I dropped. And leaving now would be disappointing. I’d at least like to know how her story ends.

“Well….that is…I suppose ‘thank you’ could suffice.” I incline my head in agreement, so her ladyship continues her tale of woe. “He’s the one who made me fall in love with the colour red. Before I met him, I hated the shade of my hair, the freckles, the pale skin. I felt my appearance would destroy my chances of marriage. The more my heart sang his virtues, the more time he spent with my sister. And by the end of the year it was announced that Rachel would be marrying Vincent Phantomhive.” Angelina heaves a sigh.

“You’re a _Phantomhive_?!” I rise involuntarily, hands slamming the table and rattling the teacups. My fingers shake as I realize what I mistake I made, coming here. She could be in league with that demon! And I…fool that I was, entering the devil’s lair without a defense. It’s too late for Will to save me now…

Although I expect her smile to spread in a malicious grin, she wears a look of genuine confusion. “Actually, I am Angelina Dalles, once Mrs. Burnett. My sister married into the Phantomhive family. Sadly, the only Phantomhive still alive is my niece Ciel. You know of the family?”

“Of course,” I reply, flustered. “Ciel Phantomhive, the Queen’s Watchdog. The child with a demon at his side. Together, they are responsible for more than half of the souls on our Death Lists.” My trembling hands refuse to still. The very mention of a demon does this to me…? Grell, calm down.

Calm. Down.

“My nephew?” She gasps. “Little Ciel with a _demon_?” The Madam appears to be in shock. While she processes what I have just told her, I compose myself. Angelina never intended to betray me. And it’s not her nephew that I have to fear. At least the souls he freely cuts down keep me busy.

Her ladyship’s voice is anguished. “Grell, I need to know the truth. Did Ciel sell his soul to a demon? Are the gates of heaven closed to my sweet nephew?”

Why must it be I to bring her this news sure to sadden her? “We reapers cannot collect his soul. The demon owns it. When Ciel dies, the demon will bring his soul into its abode.” And there it will always stay.

“No,” Angelina whispers heartbrokenly. A single teardrop rolls down her cheek. “ _NOOOOO_!” She cries, face crumpling.

In an instant I am at my lady’s side. I place my arms around her shoulders as they rack with sobs. I am almost surprised that she does not shake me away. I have never been in a situation where someone trusts me so implicitly that they could show their deepest face of sorrow to me. It is an honor but also a responsibility.

I want to take her sorrow away.

The tea must have been poisoned, for even the abysses of my mind cannot fathom such a suggestion. I have _seen_ shinigami faces melting in agony as that demon made a quick disposal of them, and the sound of their agonized screams and snapping bones still haunts me. Without souls, I don’t know if it is even possible to kill a demon. Perhaps an angel could destroy them, but I…

My heart gallops in my chest. To steady myself, I run my manicured thumb along her eyelids. Angelina’s tears slow and she looks at me uncertainly. “You don’t have to worry, Madam. I will kill the demon to save your nephew’s life.” My lady grasps my hands with gratefulness and kisses my cheek, but all I can do is shudder.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> During my research I discovered that the services of sex workers could be bought for about 3 pence in that time period, which was the price of a large glass of gin. Their job was dirty and unsafe (they were beaten and even killed) and unhealthy (they didn’t have contraception.) Unlike Grell, I think that sex workers are brave, beautiful people who overcome unwarranted disrespect.  
> 


	5. Chapter 5

We shared tales of dramatic operas and paperwork spills as the sun waned, trailing ink across the sky. The way her nose crinkles in laughter is so endearing. We have just eaten dinner and are now retiring in front of the parlour’s fire, Angelina studying a new medical text while I read a novel found in her vast library.

I glance up from my book and admire the way she purses her lips in concentration as she reads. Breaking the silence, I ask, “Since the Phantomhive boy is so precious to you, what on earth are you going to do if he figures out that we are behind the murders and tries to kill us?”

She stretches luxuriously, framing her bosom, and yawns before answering. “Dear Ciel couldn’t kill his own aunt. You don’t have to worry about that.”

“Would you forgive me if I had to kill him to save your life?” I prod. It bothers me that Ciel is so important to her. That could be an obstacle, later.

Angelina looks towards the crackling fire. “I’d rather you killed me.”

“No.”

She gives me a sidelong glance.

“I’m not here to watch you die.”

“It will not have to come to that.” She has so much faith in that murderous boy just because they are related. But I suppose I too would forgive a child for any fault. I myself would do anything just to bear a child.

Anything at all.

She closes her book and sets it aside. “I didn’t finish telling you about my adulthood.” Her ladyship steps forward, hand brushing a framed black-and-white photograph above the fireplace. “This is my late husband, the Baron Burnett.” The man has average looks but a kindly smile. “After my sister got married, I went to party after party to hide my heartbreak. Rachel never knew that I was in love with her husband. I met the Baron at a ball, and even though I told him my heart belonged to another man, he fell in love with me.

“When he asked me to marry him, there wasn’t anything to say but yes. I thought he could help me forget Vincent, but I couldn’t. My husband was very kind to me and loved me so sweetly. He made me very happy.”

“But did you love him?” I ask softly.

Angelina’s hand drops from the photo and slides to her chest. “Did I?” She muses. “I certainly cared about him, but I don’t think that was love.” Her smile is bitter. “He did everything I could ask for, yet he wasn’t Vincent. Any other woman would have loved him. My heart is spoiled, you see.” Her hand clenches and she looks at it with reproach.

Before I can break the silence thick with her yearning, a silver tear slides down her cheek. My naked hand rests on her shoulder comfortingly and she faces me unguardedly. My lady’s lower lip trembles and melancholy tones her voice. “We were riding home from a ball when the horse got spooked and…my memory of that day is fuzzy. When I opened my eyes again the carriage was tilted on its side and my husband was pinned under it. He wasn’t breathing. I was facedown on the cobblestones, skin scraped and raw and bloody.”

The Madam clenches her eyes and hunches in, the terrible memory still hard for her. Without thinking, I slip my other hand into hers. Instead of tensing, she squeezes it and continues her story. “They took me to the very hospital I work at, bandaged and in shock. They told me my husband was dead and that my womb was bleeding so profusely…they had to remove it. I would never be able to birth a child. Rachel had a beautiful, delightful child, and I…I had no husband, no womb. I cursed God then. He had taken everything from me only to give it to my sister. And yet I couldn’t hate her, for she deserved it.”

“Poor dear,” I sigh sympathetically.

“That wasn’t the end of my suffering. For on Ciel’s 13th birthday, his mansion burnt with everyone in it.” Angelina opens her eyes and indicates another portrait, a smiling family complete with a dog and sunny little boy. “My sister, my love, my nephew, even the dog had died. Why was I alive when everyone I loved was gone? I was so alone, so hurt. The allotted mourning time couldn’t heal me, but I had to return to work.”

I begin to put the pieces together; after losing her child, Angelina had to work as a doctor, and she mentioned the babies those women had killed. “You were that broad’s doctor…”

“Yes. Rachel had always been weak and watching her have an asthma attack was terrible, so I had to find some way to help. I studied hard and graduated from the London School of Medicine for Women. Even though I knew more procedures than the male doctors, I was hired as a hospital midwife. I delivered many babies. How I wished I could snatch those children right out of those women’s hands. But some women wished their babies were dead…”

“Atrocious,” I mutter.

“And they wanted me to kill their babies. When I refused, they did it themselves and ended up in the infirmary. After Ciel returned I knew he would house me, but being in that mansion hurt too much without my sister and her husband, so I had to keep working. But I couldn’t forgive those women. They had everything, the most precious gift of all, but because of their selfishness they murdered their children!” Under my fingers the pulse in her wrist throbs as she grows agitated. “It was only just for me to rid the world of that scum!”

“Yes,” I smile, teeth sharpening with excitement. “We’ll tear apart every broad that comes to you.”

Angelina’s eyes fly open and her body trembles with rage. “Their sins are unforgivable!”

“ _Yes_ ,” I pant. “The streets will run with their blood!”

 

I am again waken when shafts of sunlight creep through my curtain, but my mistress isn’t hesitant to wake me at such an unforgiving hour. “Good morning, Madam,” I beam, sitting up so my blanket slides off my figure and reveals my adorable lacy nightgown. “You look so…professional.” Angelina is clad in a white lab coat and glasses.

“Thank you. I have to work today.” She sits beside me on the bed, sighing. “I dread that another patient is going to claim that she can’t afford to raise her baby and needs to get rid of it. I abhor it, but I can’t lose my job.” She fingers my braid offhandedly. “I love your hair, dear.”

“Mmm.” I lean into her touch but check myself before I lean against her shoulder. After the whipping and sharing our stories we both removed our masks. Still, I worry that being too forward can ruin our relationship and that she will be disgusted by my physical gender. “If it’s money you’re worried about I have quite a large stash stockpiled.”

“Oh, I’ve inherited enough that I don’t need to work anymore, but I love healing people.”

“Just as much as I love watching people die?”

My lady just laughs in response. A shadow passes over her face and she reaches into her breast pocket. “Speaking of death…” Angelina withdraws a small photograph and scribbled cursive address and hands it to me. “Her name is Polly Nichols, and she’ll die tonight.”

“One of your broads?” I sneer at the distasteful woman in question, blemished with mousy brown hair the consistency of straw, a pockmarked face with dull gray eyes, fat lips, and a grimace short of a few teeth. If she lifted her skirts and her features below were that dreadful she wouldn’t get a pence from any man.

Of course, I am much prettier.

Madam nods, crossing her slender legs. “I’ll return around six. Until then, you have my leave to spend the day how you like. I only ask that you shadow Polly, and you can order a new evening gown for me if you’d like. Should you return to your work to ease their suspicion?”

“I’ve let a few souls go un-reaped, so they’re probably already looking for me. I can come up with some excuse, though.” As a member of the Shinigami Dispatch it is my pride that our department reaps every soul on our lists without fail. It is unheard of to miss a soul, and that could jeopardize not only my job but my standing within society. The only possible reason to abandon a soul is a demon-

A demon. I can use that.

Maybe I can even put together a hunting party for Ciel’s personal demon. That would be an efficient way to keep my promise to the Madam, but no shinigami would join me on that suicide mission. In fact, I hope I never have to meet him, for it’s more likely that I’ll faint before striking him.

“I’ll be sure to find a lovely dress for my lady and kill the tart-”

“No, just follow her around. We’ll kill her after I return.”

“Together?” I beam, clasping my hands together and bouncing on the edge of my bed with excitement. “Oh, this is going to be _so much fun_!”

She shakes her head in mock chastisement, the edge of her shining red lips quirking up in amusement. “What a queer little butler I have.” I still immediately and wonder whether that was meant to be a compliment or an insult. My mistress says goodbye before taking her leave.

A veil of insecurity descends over my eyes after she has ridden away. The familiar weight is something I have to fight every time I look into a mirror. The voice that tells me that my face looks too angular to be feminine and my dresses don’t suit my body type also mocks me for having feelings for my mistress. She thinks I’m _queer_. Strange. Her ladyship is probably disturbed every time a feral grin lights my features at the mention of blood.

And worse, there’s my body. She must have noticed that I have no chest when cleaning my wounds, but if she realised my nether regions were male she would ban me from this house. I curl in a ball on the bed and hug blankets to my chest. I’m unnatural. A lady such as her and one such as me are so different that talking to me degrades her. And it’s sinful that I touched myself while thinking of her.

I bite my lip, refusing to cry, and lick away the blood that trails down my chin. Should I return to my job and forget that this ever happened? I know this can only be a mistake. For if my heart clenches now at the thought of leaving her, when she dies I’ll be positively disconsolate. And I can’t let anyone see me break.

My Death List emanates a faint glow as I’m assigned a new soul and I languidly pull it from the nightstand, hoping for a distraction. It falls open to a page with a familiar picture.

With a pounding heart I read Angelina’s notes.

Location: _Osborn Street, Whitechapel_

Date: _Friday, August 31, 1888_

Time: _3:50 AM_

Tonight.

“No,” My voice is a disbelieving whisper.

If she dies, I’ll be so bored. So lonely. My Angelina shines a lot brighter than the average dull human who moans pitifully at my feet in the grip of their death throes. My fingers digging into the soft cover of my black binder have turned white and I wonder how it is possible for one heart to fall for another so quickly.

Materializing my scythe is instinctual because letting blood flow down my arms is such a stress relief-but that will invalidate my excuse of having been attacked by a demon. I turn the scythe on anyway and as it buzzes in my ears my confidence slowly regains. Instead of reaping I can go clothes shopping, and while I’m at it I could find a gift for my mistress, perhaps some new jewelry.

And tonight…

But I haven’t thought about what I am risking. Violating the Death List by reaping those who aren’t meant to die while ignoring those who are defies the very nature of shinigami. If I’m discovered the least they’ll do is suspend me. I’d likely be declared unfit to work. Without my job, what do I have? No scythe, no souls to reap, no purpose. I’d either have to live alongside those boring humans as a deserter or suffer every day in the Library as an outcast.

It’s a question of whether this adventure with my mistress is worth more than being a reaper, if fear of having my future crumble outweighs how important I feel she is.

I don’t know, but the wrong answer can destroy me.

With a startled gasp I dematerialize my scythe and cup my cheeks with my hands, eyes wide with disbelief. I am an actress; every day of my life I put on a show. When I was a child, one day I would dream of being a princess and the next a street urchin and would adopt their mannerism and dreams and ways of speaking for a few days until it bored me. As a teen I would sit in human parks and change my backstory every time another human walked by, pretending to have lost my maid or be visiting London for the very first time to amuse myself. Alan’s the only one who knows that it is sheer habit to put up a farce. My jubilance is merely the mask I use to elevate myself above my worries and other’s criticism. I’m so comfortable in this role that who I really am is buried deep beneath the surface, hidden even from me.

But with Angelina, I haven’t had to hide anything. When I speak to her it’s not part of a role. I’m able to share my sorrows and joy without self-consciousness. After I saw her kill that woman I was disarmed and she charms me more every day. I feel so comfortable, so happy around her. Consequences are irrelevant.

I choose Madam Red.

But that also means I have to step up my act as her butler. My complaints about the uniform and that shattered teacup are embarrassing and must be remedied. After changing into my butler uniform, wounds aching in such a delectable way after removing the bandages, I spend the rest of the morning cleaning house, dusting and sorting and shining until my arms are mottled with dirt.

As for tea…well, Eric’s the chef and I survive off his superior cooking as well as the thrown-together meals Academy shinigami prepare. Cooking isn’t really for females; my nails would get dirty and the smell of roasting meat would obscure my new perfume. But my Angelina is a typical British lady in that she requires tea. Therefore, I have to be able to make it well.

Back in the kitchen, I stare at the assortment displayed in front of me, hoping to be bestowed with clarity.

Okay, so the teacup sits on the saucer. But what about the tea leaf? Does that go in the kettle so it flavors the water? I think I’m on the right track.

No…the tea leaf has to be shredded first, right? You fill the tea cup with water and boil the milk. When that’s done you add honey and sugarcubes.

Voilà!

After pouring the hot milk on the tea leaf mixture, I take a scalding sip and barely manage to swallow. What is this foul concoction?!

Grell, don’t give up now. It’ll taste better next time, and the Madam will be so happy you worked at this for her. If you were at the Library it would be acceptable to smash the teacup over a trainee’s head, but butlers must be more restrained. I know it’s hard, darling, but she’s worth every frustration.

Boiling _water_ : check.

Tea leaf in cup: check.

With steady hands I send a flow of water from the metal spout to the ceramic cup. Wanting sweet tea, I empty the jar of honey into my cup. This will definitely suit a lady’s palate. I close my eyes and take a sip…only to spit all over the counter I cleaned fifteen minutes ago.

I’m _so_ done with this.

I materialize out of the house before I smash every dish in my mistress’ kitchen out of frustration. I have never entered this store in male attire before. The clothes which restrict my movement and tamp my vibrancy change my entire manner. It would make another customer uncomfortable, even suspicious, if I wore makeup in this outfit and exuded my natural femininity in the way I walked and spoke.

But I can do this role. I am a versatile, dedicated actress playing butler to a murderess. In front of the ornate mirror I hunch my shoulders and twist my expression into submissiveness and am pleased at the transformation.

“May I help you, sir?” A store clerk asks behind me.

“I-!” am not a sir! I bite my tongue and soften my tone before continuing. “Um…yes’m…” I say nervously, blushing. Too much? “Well, you see, my mistress wants me to order a new dress, and I know her measurements, but I’ve never been here before.”

She nods; my disguise is impeccable as expected. “Come right this way, if you please. We have a large selection of evening gowns with the most gorgeous satin and tulle…”

Even though I’d like to order some dresses for myself, I only pick two outfits to be sent home within the week for Angelina. I also purchased a black lace fan and a new hat stuffed with roses. I’ll surprise her with this box of Funtom chocolates; the packaging is gorgeous so I couldn’t resist. It’s so nice not to have to worry about money.

Now it’s time to return to the Shinigami headquarters, for I must talk to Alan. I materialize to the lobby. Sure enough, some shinigami are on their lunch break. Ronnie and Will aren’t here now, but Alan snuggles with his boyfriend. Eric’s hand runs repetitively through Alan’s hair. Alan catches sight of me as I walk decisively towards them. “Good afternoon, Grell. I think your new outfit looks very sharp.” Surprised, I look down at myself. Oh yes, I’m wearing the suit her ladyship bought for me.

Eric’s eyes fly open and I can feel the glare through his blue-tinted glasses. “Where the _hell_ have you been?” He demands. “You can’t skip your reapings to go on a shopping trip! Spears bitched to _me_ about it, as if I have any control or knowledge of your-”

“I don’t have time for this, Eric,” I interrupt. “How do you kill a demon?”

For once, I have rendered Eric silent. I notice the burning stares and muttering of other shinigami. As usual, I have an audience. Demons are a taboo topic in our culture. We’re taught to materialize before injury makes us unable to. We’re taught to sacrifice a human soul to save our own life. This is a policy that even I respected…before now.

Ciel’s demonic butler must be destroyed to please my mistress.

I plaster a look of regret over my face and lower my voice. “I tried to save those souls, but it was so much stronger…” I shrug off my jacket, hands trembling with insincere tremors. “I barely managed to escape.” Turning around, I pull the back of my shirt up and expose my whip wounds, angry red scratches reminiscent of demonic clawing.

“You have to get to the infirmary-!” Alan gasps.

Turning around and letting my shirt settle into place, I shake my head in disbelief and spill some passion into my tone. “We don’t have time for that! How can we let that demon escape when it ate the souls on my list? It told me it would come for me, for all of us...” My voice cracks on the last word and I cover my face with a hand, locks of hair hiding my smug expression at my believable performance.

Eric scoffs. “There is no fucking way you could escape from that bastard. You couldn’t materialize with those wounds.” When the wounds were fresh they would prevent me from doing so, but now that they are healing I can move freely.

I hesitate, but before I can foster an explanation a shaken Alan says, “Grell, what if the demon followed you here? Someone should check the wards…” A younger shinigami from the crowd volunteers and materializes outside.

“If we could kill this demon, we wouldn’t have to live in fear anymore,” I declare.

“Demons don’t have souls. They can’t be killed,” Eric argues. I glare at him for ruining my dramatic speech.

“The wards are all good!” The shinigami declares as he pops back into the lobby. Alan smiles weakly in relief.

“Report this to Spears and get Knox to reap with you if you have to, but don’t try to start a panic,” Eric continues. “There’s no way Management will send any of us on a suicide mission after a demon.” With a demon involved Management has no reason to be suspicious of my missed reapings. I frown, knowing that he’s right and no one-not even myself-would volunteer to go after it, especially one as powerful as the Phantomhive child’s.

I tried, Madam, but I didn’t expect any help.

If that demon will be destroyed it will be by my hand alone.

And that is something even I cannot do.

I turn my attention back to my friend. “Anyway, Alan, there are things we must discuss. Meet me outside after you finishing eating, ‘kay?” He nods, so I materialize in front of the Library.

I’m the only one out here to appreciate the clear, bright day. The fresh breeze plays with strands of my hair. I cross my legs and lift my head towards the sun, warmth filtered through a thick clump of tree leaves. Patches of shade dance across my relaxed body and the bench.

I’ve already determined that I can’t tell anyone about my involvement with the Madam, especially not the killings. There will be fallout that I’ll spare my friend from. But Alan’s in love (even though his boyfriend is a jerk to me) and I trust him. He’s the only one I can go to about this. Hopefully he can help me sort out my feelings.

Ten minutes later, Alan pushes through the glass double doors and sits beside me in silence, letting me gather my thoughts. He plucks a dandelion from the ground and ties it in a bow around his pinky.

“How did you know?” I ask finally. He turns his head to gaze at me quizzically. “What was the first thing that…” I sigh. “It’s hard for me to put this into words.”

Alan smiles gently. “What are you trying to ask about?”

“Love. I don’t understand it.” I brush a piece of lint from my lap, ears slightly turning crimson. “So I met this girl and…I don’t know how much I can tell you. I don’t want to keep secrets like this, but what I’m doing-my involvement with her-it goes against everything we’ve been taught. She’s a human, and…but how can I already have feelings for her? It doesn’t make sense for me to throw everything away on a whim like this.” I shake my head. “I don’t know. I really don’t know.”

“Well, that’s normal,” He says in a soothing tone. “Feeling overwhelmed and confused just means that you value her.”

“I do…but as what? A friend or something more?” I throw up my hands in frustration.

“It’ll take time to figure that out-”

“But you always knew you loved Eric,” I interrupt.

“I always thought he was _hot_.”

I grin widely, Cheshire teeth gleaming in the sunlight. “Well, of course. That man’s body is legendarily fine.”

“As well it should be,” He smirks.

“You _would_ know, dear.” We share a laugh.

After a brief respite of silence Alan’s expression grows more serious. “Tell me about her, how she changes you.”

Startled, I blink at him. “Changes me…?” I echo.

“Yes. How do you feel around her? What special part of yourself does only she see?”

“I…” I ponder the day I first spent at her house and the dedication towards immersing myself in the role of a servant. “Around her, it’s like I hold myself up to a different standard. I’m her servant and I take that seriously. Only, it’s not a role, Alan. It’s real.” I shake my head disbelievingly. “It’s never been real before.”

“That’s really exciting.” Alan places a hand on top of mine encouragingly. “Do go on.”

My eyelids flutter shut and the images of my mistress whipping me, so gently cleaning me afterwards, and speaking softly of her past brings a warm flush to my cheeks. “She’s so special, Alan, so special; a human whose pain I feel and joy I share. A single touch of hers sets my entire body aflame, and I’ve faced my greatest fears to make her smile.”

“I’m happy you’ve found someone like her,” He says. “I hope she has a gentle manner towards you.” I nod, thinking of the cloth she swiped down my bruised back. “Well, then I think you’ve answered your own question.” Have I?

What is love if not a tenderness and passion towards another person whose very presence makes everything right? “Then being with her is the right thing to do, even if I skip my reapings for her.”

Alan nods, validating my sentiment. “If that’s how you feel, then you belong at her side.”

I clasp my hands to my chest and bask in the warm flush throughout my veins. For the first time in my lonely existence of over a hundred years, I have fallen in love.

Till death do us part.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The irony in the last sentence though. I suppose ‘lol’ would be inappropriate in this case, but lol.  
> When I write fanfic I like sticking to canon, although I come up with my own plots inspired by my headcanons. In this case, however, I wanted to stick to the time period. It’s okay if I don’t write about all the Ripper murders or switch some around, but I realized there is a glaring historical inaccuracy in canon: namely that Madam Red performed abortions on sex workers. In that time period, contraceptives were extremely difficult to obtain and abortions were in fact illegal. Angelina wouldn’t risk her job by killing a baby, especially considering her backstory. It doesn’t make any sense for Angelina to have performed abortions. Therefore, I decided to have my own interpretation; Angelina’s patients were sex workers who wanted abortions. Some asked her unsuccessfully for the operation while others did dangerous things like using a coat-hanger and they ended up in her clinic anyway, so they would still be on a list of her patients that Sebastian displayed.  
> 


	6. Chapter 6

A tart’s life in the day time is just like every other poor English folk's, a total bore. The only difference is that these little whores get all raunchy when darkness falls, like a curtain at the intermission of a play bringing a gasp-worthy plot twist. I expected this to be entertaining; why are humans with the exception of my lady love so disappointing?

Still dressed as a butler, my crossed legs swing back and forth as I perch on the edge of a fountain, watching Ms. Nichols laughing with another lady. The chirping of birds and splashing of the water behind me are pleasant, but this unremarkable scene has been continuing since half-past four. I knew she wouldn't have enough money to buy lunch or clothes, but she didn't even rise until after one, probably suffering from a drunken headache. Laboring under the afternoon sun, she sewed an old petticoat's rip closed and added a new button to a mauve cardigan, taking a break to prepare tea. Embarrassingly enough, my preparation of it was extremely flawed, but tomorrow I should be able to surprise my mistress with a cup of well-steeped Earl Grey.

Polly spent the rest of the afternoon in this park, chatting with friends. I volunteered to follow her because I thought I would be able to corner her and kill her myself, but observing her alone isn’t enough to guess if she will frequent the same area tonight. I do, however, know where she lives and what connecting streets have alleys she can pull a man aside in exchange for a sweaty coin.

With an exaggerated sigh, I raise the back of my hand to my forehead as if faint from the heat before realizing such a motion is far too feminine for a butler. Keeping my head down, I brush past the ladies on a quest for refreshments. The words I hear slow my steps.

“-the killer was like a ghost, disappeared without a trace! Left a body full o’ holes, an’ there’s no motives, no nothin’! It’s dangerous out there,” The tart’s companion insists in a thick accent.

“An invisible murderer? Oh, I’m sure.”

“No, Polls, ya hafta believe me! Me uncle, he works at George Yard Buildings, he discovered the body!” I halt, eyes widening, contemplating murder before I realize that they don’t have anything to connect the body to Angelina. Her tone softens. “Look, just don’t take anything from a man who’s not from around these parts. Promise me that, Polls.”

The woman with only hours left to live says, “Don’t worry, I’ll be careful. Really. Don’t worry yourself on my behalf.”

I smile knowingly before taking a step forward into my mistress’ house.

 

She unbuttons her white jacket and I hang it on the coat rack by the front door. “I hope work went well, my lady?”

Bending to unlace her shoes, Madam complains, “Whooping cough must be an epidemic. I swear I saw twice as many patients today as I have in the last week!”

“That sounds dreadfully tiring.”

“Yes, I think I’ll get some sleep before we head out. I ate on the way home. Can you wake me around three?” After taking a step on the staircase to our bedrooms, her hand flutters to her cheek and she turns to me. “Oh, you must think me terribly rude. Grell, dear, what did you occupy your day with?”

“It’s not important if you’re tired,” I concede. I wanted to chat about our days, girl talk, but I’d rather have the Madam be refreshed.

“I insist.” She smiles playfully, returning to the entrance hall. “You don’t have to act like my servant _here_ , you know.”

With a jolt, I whisper, “What else am I?” suddenly charging the air with seriousness.

Her ladyship’s smile flickers slightly but doesn’t disappear.

“I don’t know if I...if it’s a proper question to ask, but earlier you offered to whip me again.” When I swallow my heart seems to be up in my throat. “And I’d like that very much, Madam.”

Angelina grabs my wrist and tilts her head, meeting my insecure eyes. In moments like this I am struck by just how beautiful she is. “I think we can be more creative than that, can’t we, dear? I’ll bring some toys home from work and you can pick what we’ll play with.” She strokes my palm and a startled sound escapes my lips as my heart seems to beat twice as fast. “Is that agreeable?”

“Y-yes,” I stutter.

She pecks my cheek-is that friendly or affectionate?-before heading up the stairs. Once she’s gone I remember to breathe again. This has to be a positive development, right? She’s the only one I trust to hurt me the way I need to be hurt. Rubbing my back, I sigh dreamily at the sting of my scabbing wounds.

 

Despite my nervousness at what my Death List foreshadows, I did manage to sleep. The horse’s flanks shift underneath me as I hold my mistress in my arms, ignoring the dark town passing by. I open my mouth again, debating whether to tell her about her predicted death…but I can protect her, so there’s nothing to worry about.

“What street did you-?”

“Oh, yes, Buck’s Row is a popular street for soliciting,” I answer, pushing back thoughts of danger. “The dark alleys there are awfully convenient.”

“It’s a little cool to be servicing men outside. Do you think she’d be at home instead?”

“She doesn’t have a choice. Without an honest trade, there’s no other way for her to keep her lodgings.”

My mistress lets out a sound of disapproval. “We give these people all the opportunities they need, and they still give in to the dirtiest, basest paths of human desire. Poverty is not something they are born into but something they choose to perpetuate.” I shrug noncommittally, not interested in human class divisions. Whatever the Madam needs to think to ease her conscience.

Osborn Street is about a ten minute walk from Buck’s Row, so she ties Lycoris to a fence just out of reach of the single gas lamp and we finish our journey on foot. My blood red hair gleams in a halo over the shoulders of my refined butler uniform. Madam, as usual, is dressed stylishly. We pass silent windows with the click-clack of our heels following behind us, lamp light fading with each step.

Trembling with bloodlust, I flick my hand and my beloved chainsaw forms.

Out of the corner of her eye Angelina notices the gleaming weapon and shakes her head. “That’s too quick. She deserves agony.” I begrudgingly let my baby disappear in exchange for a pair of polished kitchen knifes. She grips her usual thick dagger that’s already tasted the blood of two women.

And here’s our third.

The darkness is our guise, our protector. She hears us and sets down her glass of wine, assuming we are customers. I smell the spendings of a man who left not ten minutes ago. A successful night, until now. “Hello?” Her voice is soft, confused. Two ‘gents’ could mean trouble…or it could mean double the pay.

We don’t answer and her heart starts working double time. I breathe the rich scent of fear, my invisible face cracking into a wide smile like a grotesque mask. Polly demands roughly, “Who are you? Whaddaya want?”

My scornful laugh resonates deeply, madly to her ears.

“I am an angel of vengeance and I want your child back!” Madam advances towards her and with each step her body grows stiffer, trembling with a sort of madness.

Polly springs up and backs into the stable behind her. “What the hell kind of sick game is this?”

“Yes, we’re playing a game,” I tease. “How many stabs does it take to turn a woman’s womb inside out? Any guesses, Madam?”

“I think we’ll have to find out.”

“Somebody h _elp_ -!” Polly’s cry is cut off in a gurgle as Angelina slits her neck. Her eyes bulge out of their sockets with fear and her gasp turns into a moan.

“Madam, don’t finish her off that quickly,” I whine. “I want a turn too!”

“Be patient, dear,” She reprimands. “I was only intending to silence her.” Angelina wraps her thin hand around the other woman’s throat, panting with satisfaction as Polly’s face changes color. Blood trails down her slender hand and awakens my darkest hunger, same as that of my scythe.

To bleed with love as others bleed with agony.

Madam steps away and watches the tart slide the ground coldly, like an artist deciding what tool to use next. Before I can slice apart the hyperventilating woman, my mistress orders me to wait and kneels beside her victim. With a look of morbid curiosity she traces Polly’s face with her jagged dagger. I toss my head in impatience at her pitiful cries.

In quick succession, Madam slashes up and down her stomach, mincing Polly’s womb. She holds the wine glass under the fresh gashes, blood pouring into the cup. “I think that was…fifteen stabs?”

Suddenly, Polly scratches at my mistress’ eyes, desperately trying to push her away. It’s too much for me. I plunge my kitchen knifes through her wrists, pinning her to the wooden stable. She tries to scream but with slit vocal cords the sound is too quiet and dry. Tears stream from her terrified eyes and mingle with the blood gleaming on her throat.

“You disobeyed me, Grell.” Madam’s displeasure douses my rising viciousness and I turn to her, floundering. “We’re going home.”

“But you didn’t finish her off yet,” I protest.

“She _will_ die like this,” Madam continues. “I told you to wait and you didn’t. There are consequences for chafing against the orders of your mistress. You will be punished when we arrive home, but we don’t need to make a scene here. Let Ms. Nichols bleed out in isolation on her last eve. Oh, and don’t forget my knives.” My mistress walks away from the body pinned to the wall and I can only stare after her, stunned with admiration.

This is the first time I’ve been exposed to Angelina’s cold, domineering side…and I must say it has the opposite effect on me. Like a flame dipped to my skin patches of my body flush. I hope she adds more scars to me tonight. The blood itself was intoxicating and my mistress treating me like a servant is exhilarating. Ripping the knives out and leaving the broad to crumple on the blood-soaked grass I hurry after my Madam, pangs of love whirling in my heart.

I think I could spend the rest of my life like this.

 

Stopping to wipe the blood from her arms on the way back to the horse gives me an excess of time to stare at her, and it isn’t helping. Angelina was endowed with perfect beauty, and the specks of blood staining her clothing and skin makes her that much more desirable. I’m overheating and my arousal makes restraining myself physically painful at this point, but I have to bear it until we arrive back home.

Her top has slipped enough to display her round chest, and there is a single droplet of crimson blood gleaming on her left breast that I can’t divert my eyes from. My breathing is heavy and my tongue quivers when I lick my dry lips. How I want to taste that stained pale flesh …

I’m standing beside her and when I lean over I expect to wipe the distracting spot off her chest but instead my tongue flicks it. Her body trembles under me and her chest rises against my lips. Fearfully I lift my head, leaving saliva on her breast, ready for her hand to sting my cheek. Instead, our faces are too near and somehow her lips and mine meet.

Her perfect mouth bites mine hungrily, searching for something. I let out a sharp gasp, body tensing, afraid to respond. “It’s been so long since someone touched me like this,” She reassures me, stroking my flushed cheek. She could be drunken on bloodlust, but even if her advances are vicarious, I soak them up like sweet bread sopping up honey.

Sensing that I’m inexperienced, she guides my head under hers. Fingers tangled in my wild hair, she gasps with a long stroke of my tongue on her neck. I suckle her warm flesh, straining and losing self-consciousness with each of her moans.

I’ve never been this happy, this lost in someone else.

I didn’t think it was possible.

She throws me against the storefront and pins me to the wall, rising to claim my lips once again. Her half-lidded eyes are so beautiful I can’t help but admire them as she ravishes my mouth, leaving a wet trail behind. I squirm under her grip and shake as her stomach presses against my crotch, causing us both to moan loudly. Angelina smiles and pulls my hands to her chest, directing me to knead it.

I’m in ecstasy when she bucks into me, rubbing my skin against the rock-studded storefront. She presses against me again, thrashing my head into the wall. I squeal as she pushes against a sweet spot of my cock, making my whole body shudder even through the layers of clothing.

Without warning my lady pulls away from me, breathing heavily. “We have to go,” She pants. “Before…before someone discovers the body.”

Surprise. Love. Hurt. Lust. Insecurity. I stare at her blankly, unable to react. What did that mean?

“Hurry,” She insists, starting to run, heels slapping against the cobblestones.

“Yes my lady,” I whisper uncertainly, following behind her. I want to keep touching her, but what if it was a mistake?

A droplet of rain hits my forehead and I cast an annoyed glance at the pitch sky. Madam comes to a stop by the fence where the horse was tied. “Where’s Lycoris?” She asks, flustered. “This is where we tied him!”

Realizing her eyes cast a much dimmer picture of the world than mine, I show her the tether still tied to the fence. “Someone must have stolen him.” Another thick droplet hits my chin and slides down my throat. “I can carry you home-”

“Find the thief and kill him,” She interrupts. “I am riding home on my horse.”

I nod, searching for a slight movement proving the thief is still near. Closing my eyes, I expand my hearing, catching the pattering of rain…and the breathing of a human and horse just a block around the corner.

Angelina and I advance towards the human from opposite sides with our weapons wielded. The human gasps when he catches sight of Madam and his hand slips from the horse’s bridle and into his pocket. Panicked, he dashes towards her and shoves something into her belly and she screams-

a _knife_ -

so my mistress is bleeding and my scythe jumps at the little boy and tears him in two and-

I drop my scythe and it clatters to the ground and suddenly the world is at normal speed again as his torso and legs slide apart. I start to shake when I realize Angelina is supposed to die tonight and she was just _stabbed_ …then I drop my gaze to the _child_ on the ground, reaching towards me plaintively, wailing; the _child_ that could have been mine…

My own heartbeat is much too loud. The ground has suddenly become unsteady and I find myself swaying on my feet before collapsing.

The rain has stopped and Angelina isn’t clutching her stomach desperately anymore. She and the child have disappeared. The only humans around us are already dead. Their cinematic records dance around like snakes, emanating a faint glow that puts us trainees in awe. Every decade the entire London Dispatch gathers young future Dispatch to watch a standard reaping. We are standing beside our heroes, and those lucky enough to get the job will also be revered. “What’s the first step in a reaping, dearies?” Benedict Phillips, known for flirting with male shinigami and wearing ties that clash with his outfit-today it is bright yellow silk-smiles at us benignly. I clutch Will’s hand nervously and stare up at Benedict’s face, imagining myself in his shoes (well, heels) someday. Like today, I’ll be wearing a skirt, even if Will acts embarrassed to be around me for standing out so much. He’ll grow out of it.

“Stab your scythe into their stomach?” I offer, grinning so that a gap where I lost a tooth last week is visible.

Will stamps on my foot and corrects me. “Sir, don’t esteem me in the league of that twelve-year-old _airhead_ , who is obviously more concerned with staining his scythe with blood than following proper company protocol. The first step in a reaping is, of _course_ , checking that the victim’s death matches the time and place on your Death List.”

Benedict flashes us a grin, amused. “Notwithstanding the little lover’s quarrel, you are correct about checking your Death List.” He flips us open and shows us his page, which Will touches reverently. The picture and description match the woman whose skin is blistering black even as her breaths fade away. In this crowded part of the city the plague hardly left a soul untouched-except, of course, shinigami as we’re immune to human diseases.

Although we cannot see souls like demons, we feel its presence as it separates from the dead woman’s body for the first time. “Now you get to take your scythe out!” I beam. Benedict nods and, with twinkling eyes, flicks his wrist then holds a sickle, bigger than the ones used in training. “ _Woah_ ,” I gasp. “That is the coolest thing I’ve ever seen!” Will sticks his tongue at me, displaying his usual annoyance. “Can I touch it, can I? Can I?”

“You can even hold it.” Benedict wraps my fingers around the wooden handle. “Let me reap her, though.” Immediately I dance around and practice swiping the scythe, giggling.

“Hmph. Haven’t you learned to share?” His voice is practically dripping with condescension.

“I _knew_ you’d want to touch it.” I hand the weapon to my future boyfriend smugly. “But if you want to touch _me_ you have to earn it.”

Before Will can utter a sharp reply, Benedict starts choking. Will and I stare at him with confusion. Shinigami can’t get sick, so what…?

Benedict claws at his own throat as the choking grows louder and his fingers leave black marks behind. “Mr. Phillips?” My voice quivers and I trade a look with Will, whose eyes are wide with panic. This feels too unnatural to be a joke.

Benedict’s head snaps back and he chokes up blood, which drools down the sides of his face. He slumps backward, body spasming, and when he meets my terrified gaze his pupils have disappeared, leaving a black cavern in his eye sockets. I grab Will’s arm and scream shrilly, wetting my pants in unadulterated fear.

The other shinigami notice and the kids start to panic, backing away. The leader of our group, Mr. Anderson, raises his voice, demanding, “Trainees, materialize home immediately, where it’s safe! I need a few people to notify the Council and protect these children. Otherwise, Dispatch, stay here and fight!”

“What’s happening?” A girl demands.

“We’re being attacked by a demon.”

With that announcement half the crowd disappears in a frenzy, but I am trembling too hard. “Will, I can’t materialize. I’m too scared. Don’t leave me here alone!”

I almost don’t recognize his face for the concern in it. “Okay. I won’t let a demon touch you. I swear it.” He steps in front of me and holds the scythe ready. I almost swoon at his protectiveness.

Five Dispatch members surround Benedict, but their actions don’t seem to help him. Instead, his mouth opens impossibly wide and black gashes appear on his skin. I start to whimper and Will squeezes my hand. “They’ll take us home once they’ve defeated it,” He insists. I shake my head mutely, breathing fear.

With a roaring that seems to come from the depths of the earth which drowns out my shriek, a figure steps out of the shinigami’s mouth, leaving a mutilated corpse behind. “That journey was very unpleasant,” The first demon I’ve seen says suavely, peeling off bits of Benedict’s organs stuck to its scorched flesh. “It took almost five months to possess this shinigami. His soul is sure to be delectable.”

A Dispatch member punches through the demon’s stomach with his scythe, and when he pulls it out I am fascinated that the blood pooling around the hole is red instead of black. The other shinigami leap to the edges of buildings, cornering him, while the one with the bloody scythe guards us.

The demon blinks, smiling with amusement. “Oh, did you think that was going to kill me?” It grabs the shinigami’s face and as his skin starts to melt away he lets out an agonized scream that I’m sure will haunt me forever. Shattering loud as a gunshot it breaks his neck and pulls the shinigami towards him, dropping him on Benedict.

“I’m not so low-rank that I have to scavenge humans. Tonight I will have a feast on shinigami.” His head snaps to Will and I, turning almost backwards, red eyes glittering like a spider. “There are children too? How _adorable_.”

My legs go weak and I slump to the ground, manicured fingers trailing along Will’s dress pants. The demon tilts its head backward and breathes deeply, leering. “The irony here is that the more of your fear I taste, the stronger I grow.” He takes a step towards me, blackening the ground beneath his feet. Will’s trembling hands clutch his scythe and he shouts for help. My eyes roll back in my head and I’m sure I’ll faint then it’ll all be over.

But there’s another demon that appears on a roof and impales a shinigami’s heart on a sword-like finger, killing him instantly. The first demon turns away from us and screeches in a tongue not human. The other demon yells back in that same dark gibberish and tries to swallow the shinigami’s soul, so our demon leaps onto the roof, a cloud of darkness swallowing them both.

A Dispatch member lands besides us. “Why haven’t you materialized? You have to get to the Library now!”

“He’s too afraid.” Will’s voice is unsteady. “Are we going to die here?”

“Shinigami don’t die,” He assures us.

A demon pulverizes him and his blood rains over us.

Paralyzed from the shock, I can’t defend myself as its vile hand moves to my face.

“Grell. _Grell_.” A woman’s voice becomes louder, more insistent. “Grell Sutcliffe! I need you. Come back to me.”

I close my eyes, shedding silent tears, expecting excruciating death and an eternity of my soul in a demon’s maw.

The demon’s claw grabs my shoulder and shakes me. I open my eyes to look at Will one last time and-

Madam. I am drawn out of my memory and realize that it is centuries later and my mistress’ life is in danger. I try to hold back a sob but tears fall anyway. “I didn’t tell you earlier but your name was in my Death List and that means you are supposed to die and I don’t know how to save you-!” Powerlessness clogs my throat. A demon can destroy me, but a single human can destroy my future with the woman I love.

“Grell.” Angelina is kneeling on the pavement where I have fallen, hands wrapped around the knife in her stomach, glowing with a halo of blood. She smiles, still more of a pained grimace, and laces her fingers through mine. “You can save me.” She looks at me with such assuredness that it cuts off my protest. “Think. You’re a reaper. You’re _my_ reaper. There must be some way…”

I squeeze her hands and close my eyes, searching for any possibility.

Nothing.

When my eyes blink open with despair she inhales sharply with disbelief. “I’m not going to die like this,” She pleads. “You promised me.”

“I’m sorry,” I whisper, self-loathing falling over me like the rain and my tears. “You’re not the first person I couldn’t save.” I couldn’t stop the demon from killing Benedict or the others who fell in that massacre. If it wasn’t for the Death Bookmark and Pen, no one would have survived.

I stand up quickly and Madam looks at me with renewed hope. “There’s something, but it’s crazy.” The Death Bookmark is guarded, and I would be imprisoned for unauthorized use. But that’s only if I am caught.

Angelina smiles at me. “You _can_ save me. I have faith in you, Grell.” She reaches for me, pulling my face to hers and kissing me lightly on the lips. “Hurry though. It…hurts.” Her hands flutter back to the knife impaled in her stomach.

“Yes, Madam.” I notice the watch tied with a black ribbon around her wrist and hope there is enough time before her allotted death to save her. “What time is it?”

“Twenty minutes until four.”

I only have ten minutes!

 


	7. Until Our Insanity Becomes Love

My clothes are drenched with rain and blood-whose, I cannot tell-and I’m sure my hair is a horrific mass of tangles. But for once, I have something to put above my appearance. My love for Angelina is different than other unrequited feelings I’ve had in the past. No one else has kissed me. Even though she is human, it seems she understands my passion for children and violence, passions that are foremost among my thoughts but are dismissed by every shinigami I encounter.

I am the only one who can save her life, and I must.

 

10 Minutes.

Back in our house (our house? I’m really invested), I scoop my Death List from the floor and tuck it under my arm. If I stop moving, I’m afraid everything will catch up with me and the clamped panic will bubble up in my throat, wasting precious minutes.

I keep moving relentlessly.

With my back wounds I cannot materialize, so I am forced to leap from rooftops, hurrying towards the library. My damp clothes stick to my skin unpleasantly and my pant legs get drenched from rooftop puddles that are kicked up as I hurry through them. I know that pushing my body to this speed even for a few minutes is dangerous, but I ignore the screeching of my joints and push forward.

 

9 Minutes.

My glasses are pummeled with rain so much that I can’t see through them and have to stick them into my breast pocket, even though the world becomes a blur. My legs ignore my will and slow their stride before my body collapses. Gritting my teeth, I dash to the edge of this building and propel myself across the vast gulf separating it from its neighbor.

But it seems my depth perception was off. This building is storeys lower than I expected but I am too fast to change course now. I brace myself for the landing but when my right heel hits the roof I slip on the damp tile and my ankle rolls, taking the brunt of the impact. Something snaps in my foot and I scream as I skid off the roof and land on a wide trash bin below.

Involuntarily swearing, I gingerly touch my ankle to assess the damage. I fear that it is broken but I’m unable to reset the bones. Shinigami heal faster than humans but not fast enough to get to the Library in less than ten minutes and rewrite Madam’s future.

My entire body is a mass of bruises, but even I cannot relish the sharp pain in my ankle. I can’t allow this injury to slow me. Sticking handkerchiefs between my teeth to silence myself, I inch my fingers along the wall to pull myself up. When I place my right foot down, my vision goes red, my handkerchief absorbs a shriek, pain shoots up my ankle, and I collapse onto the trash bin.

I have to get to the Library with only one usable foot.

 

8 Minutes.

There isn’t time to make a splint and there aren’t any carriages at this time of night. I am forced to speed hop, faster than a human’s run, on the ground using the buildings for support. If anyone saw me like this the humiliation would be unbearable.

But I haven’t lost sight of the urgency or importance of my mission.

 

7 Minutes.

I know the Library is close. I wish the downpour would recede. If only my foot would heal faster…

 

6 Minutes.

Panicking about the time, I take a step with my right foot. The pain shakes my entire body but the foot finally holds my weight. Grimacing, I dash to my home and finally, _finally_ reach it.

There is a guard at the only entrance to our building and he would apprehend me, a blood-soaked shinigami who has been missing with glasses off like a deserter, and in my weakened state time would slip through my fingers like sand. But this is not the first time I’ve had to sneak into the Library. My window is always unlocked for that reason.

The handkerchiefs muffle my shrieks with every step as I dash around the side of my building and fumble with the latch on my window before crawling through and landing on my floor with an ungraceful thump. I don’t think I’ve ever tormented my body to such an extent. Once I save Madam I’m really going to need to rest.

Eyes watering from the pain, I pull myself up by the doorknob and spit out the bloody handkerchiefs, hoping no one is awake to hear my groans and thumps. I hope Will didn’t take my disappearance out on the other Dispatch. If I could materialize, there wouldn’t be a time crunch, but as it is I dash through the empty halls to Collections, fumbling to wipe off my glasses and slide them back on.

 

5 Minutes.

Even at almost four in the morning, a single shinigami sits in the Collections room, eyes glowing as he marks a stack of papers scattered over his desk with a quill pen. The room is full of oaken bookshelves filled with records of everyone who has ever died in the London vicinity. These are all the souls we have protected from vicious demons, all the souls Dispatch has reaped. Tucked into a corner the Death Bookmark and Pen are displayed, glass case covered with dust gathered since the Shinigami Massacre of ’03.

If he reports me, game over. I have to convince him not to talk using whatever means are necessary. I need to rewrite Madam’s future quickly and leave before anyone notices I’m here.

Flinging the doors open, I limp into the room. Mr. Collections jumps at my unexpected entrance and slams his pen down. “What are you doing here?” He demands.

I pull a face. “I just wanted to check someone’s Death List. Is that a problem?”

“That is most certainly a problem! This is not the time or…” His voice peters out as he takes in my disheveled appearance and flyaway red hair. “Good lord, you’re bloody Grell Sutcliffe! Aren’t you?” He stands up and blocks my path.

“Yes, yes, being star-struck is normal. I don’t have time for autographs, kid, so-”

“Well, fuck me, you’ve been missing! And now you waltz into my office covered with blood like some _demon_. You think I’m going to let you steal someone’s Death List and not say a word about it?” His smiles, another possibility occurring to him. “Or I could turn you in. I’d probably be promoted! Lord knows I could use some sleep at this time of night.”

“If you don’t want to get hurt, forget you saw me tonight.” My voice is low in warning, dropping the playfulness. “Why don’t you return to your room and get some sleep? I’ll watch Collections for the rest of the night.”

“Not happening.” He narrows his eyes. “You’re not crazy enough to hurt a shinigami…are you?”

 

4 Minutes.

“I will do whatever it takes.” With every word, another second slips by. I draw my scythe before he can materialize and warn, “Don’t leave unless you want my baby through your heart.”

The shinigami stumbles back, the smell of fear so like Polly’s.

“I don’t want to hurt you, but I have to be sure that you will not tell anyone about seeing me.” My voice is calm, but inside my heart feels strangled. I’m scared that I won’t have enough time to save Madam, but I also couldn’t kill a shinigami. But what if that sacrifice is necessary to have access to the Death Bookmark?

“Have you lost your mind?” He splutters. I ignore him, removing the glass case over the Death Bookmark. “You can’t usethat!”

“Do you want your blood to decorate the glass instead?” To my relief, he stops talking. Opening my stuffed Death List, I reverently place the Bookmark between the pages of my mistress and a lady I’m supposed to reap tomorrow.

Before I can pick up the Pen, the room starts to blare. That high-pitched wailing sound means the wards have been broken and a demon has entered the Library. Mr. Collections pressed the button to bring reinforcements to this room to capture me. When I turn around in anger he is already gone, and my anger turns to panic.

 

3 Minutes.

I don’t know how long it’ll be before shinigami wake up and rush to help their endangered comrade in this room. I turned the alarm off but I’m sure people will still respond to it. If Mr. Collections is truly afraid of me he won’t tell anyone what I did here, but otherwise he could use that to suspend me. I threatened him, but that’s everyday banter in the Dispatch department. Using the Death Bookmark without permission is a different kind of transgression altogether, maybe even worse than killing humans meant to be reaped.

Attempting to make Mr. Collections seem crazy and a demon attack likely, I throw a bookshelf down, scattering old Death Lists and dust mites everywhere. Dipping the pen in ink, I quickly write ‘ _The knife falls from Angelina’s stomach. Immediately, the wound begins to close and she feels no pain. Within a minute she is completely healed and survives. It is not time for her soul to be reaped_.’

Relief floods my veins and I struggle to resist the urge to collapse, so very weary. I still am not finished yet. I have to leave the Library without being seen, and my ankle is still throbbing; I can’t materialize. I arrange the Death Bookmark and Pen, replace the glass lid, tuck my Death List under my arm, and leap through the open window just as someone materializes into the room.

“Edward? Are you in here?” I recognize the Collection Manager’s voice as I keep to the edge of the building, heading back to my room to make sure there isn’t any evidence I returned. The floor and wall are probably damp where I touched them, but I hope my pant cuffs instead of the building have a trail of my blood.

Before I can flip open my window, pocket the handkerchiefs, and return to my mistress, someone materializes to confront me. “I knew you were here,” Eric accuses, narrowing his eyes. “I heard you earlier, and when the alarm went off I thought you let a demon in.”

“I’m not a traitor,” I spit. I _really_ don’t want to deal with him right now.

“You are a failure as a shinigami! Why haven’t you been reaping lately? Whose blood are you covered in?”

“You couldn’t understand.” I glare at him. “Don’t waste my time. Are you going to try to turn me in or are you just here to lecture?”

“Alan considers you a friend, and he is so worried about you. He’s been searching for you; he’s out right now, in fact. If I raised my voice I could bring the entire Management division on you.”

I warily shift my weight to my left foot. “But?”

“But I won’t because it’s better this way. My boyfriend does not need to get involved in whatever crazy scheme you are living right now.”

I close my eyes briefly, guilty about hiding things from my closest shinigami friend. “Tell him I’m happy with her, and I’m so sorry for making him worry.” Alan will remember our earlier conversation and understand that I have found a different way to live. It could be decades before I return of my own volition. I should probably write him soon.

“You owe me one big fuck of a favor, Sutcliffe.” With one final look of disdain, Eric disappears.

As tempting as it is to take cover in the woods behind the Library and heal until this search blows over, I can’t leave Madam waiting. In the wee hours of the morning the sky is still dark enough for me to slip away from the Library unnoticed, Management focused on the wards. Servants are beginning to wake as I dash through alleyways instead of braving rooftops. My right ankle is numb and creaks with every step.

When I finally reach Angelina, watching the sky slowly lighten with a manicured hand on Lycoris, I slump forward in an exhausted faint.

 

I blink slowly to awareness, comfortable and dry with a harsh throbbing at my ankle. I’m wearing a cotton nightgown and resting on a velvet sofa with a wool blanket pulled to my chin. The thought of Madam undressing me and perhaps unveiling my unspeakable parts causes me to blush profusely. I almost close my eyes again and sink into the warmth but then worry about Angelina’s health.

I sit up, grabbing my glasses from the armrest, and notice her reclined in an armchair, perusing a paper. “Good morning, Madam.”

She smiles in answer and pulls a chair to my sofa, gesturing to keep me seated. “You saved my life. It’s the least I can do to make you comfortable.”

Basking in her praise, I ask, “Are you completely healed?”

“I thought I was going to bleed out but then the knife slipped onto the pavement and my stomach began to close and the pain ceased. I knew you must have caused it. It’s like I was never stabbed.” She offers her tea to me. “Are you thirsty?” When I nod, she lifts the cup to my lip and holds it as I drain its contents, oddly sensualizing the routine.

Madam lifts my Death List and asks, “Is this the List you were telling me about earlier that tells you when souls are to be reaped?”

“Yes, it’s what told me that you were supposed to die yesterday. I was able to save you because we have a Death Bookmark and Pen that can change Death Lists. They are rarely used because we let most humans die, though.”

“I was browsing this List yesterday, but something odd happened when I was reading it.” She opens a page and hands it to me. “All the words and pictures disappeared. Has that happened before?”

“ _What_?” I gape at the thick cream page, paling like the paper. I flip through my Death List but the entire thing is blank.

“I take it that’s not good?”

I shake my head quickly, wild hair tumbling over my shoulders. “I didn’t think they would catch on so quickly…”

“What?” Angelina’s expression is concerned.

I bite my lip, casting a guilty expression at my mistress.

“Grell, is there something you’re not telling me?”

“Well…” I sigh, twirling a lock of hair around my finger. “Yesterday when I returned to the Library, a few shinigami saw me. On the way there I broke my ankle or something so it’s amazing I wasn’t seized. One shinigami caught me changing your Death List, although they can’t connect it to you, and Eric-the coworker I told you about who is always rude to me-saw me covered in blood and could have turned me in, so I owe him now. Which isn’t good. Anyway, they both probably blabbed to Management because I’ve been missing and not doing my job, so either foul play or desertion is assumed.”

Madam looks confused, but she also understands that I made a mistake that could have serious consequences. “Do you think they’ll connect the murders with you?”

“They would have been able to if they didn’t wipe my Death List. They can’t see who I shouldn’t have reaped and I can’t see who I should reap. But they also know that I was violating our rules.” I lace my fingers together and announce the problem. “They must be looking for me.”

Madam leans forward and asks, “Are we safe here?”

“They won’t be able to find us here, but it’s not safe for me to return.” I exhale slowly, grateful that she isn’t angry with me. “I’m sorry.”

Angelina nods. “What this means is that we have to be very vigilant. Humans are looking for the murderer and your people are looking for you. You have to seriously adopt the persona of my butler. Outside of my house, you will be shy and incompetent and subservient. And you also have to wear the wig.”

“Not the _wig_ ,” I moan, stroking my luxurious hair.

“Grell.” Her harsh rebuke warns that protests are inappropriate as I brought it on myself. I flinch and drop my hands. “You _will_ wear the wig. You cannot handle such an excruciating punishment for your disobedience in this case.”

A shiver goes down my spine and I’m tempted to take that as a challenge, but Angelina is serious about the wig. “Yes, my lady,” I concede. I will do my utmost to prevent being caught, even if that means the humiliation of disguising my adored hair.

“Good.” She casts a glance at the porcelain clock on the mantelpiece above the fireplace. “It is two, so would you like refreshments?”

“I didn’t realize I slept for so long,” I marvel. “No wonder I was so parched. Oh, and thank you for bringing me home.”

“I also fixed up your ankle so it would heal while aligned. Your body did most of the work and gave you a high fever. The flesh of your back is like new, but I should think your foot will be sore for a day or two.” Angelina rises and heads to the kitchen. I wish my back was still scarred, but at least I’ll be able to walk without agony in every step.

I grit my teeth, mind replaying my mistakes back at the Library. I can’t believe I was stupid enough to turn my back on Mr. Collections! And of all the luck, it had to be _Eric_ to block my escape. I am certain some shinigami is searching all over London right at this moment to find me. That I have become a top priority, a fugitive.

It’s not just my job in jeopardy any more.

It is my very life.

Shinigami take transgressions very seriously. I would not be the first one to face the ultimate punishment for disobedience. As much as I loathe the thing, the wig might be the very thing necessary to protect me and my life with my mistress.

But even if my soul is culled after hers is gone, I won’t regret this. What has the shinigami life given me? I would do anything to trade genders with a secretary, but they still hate me for having the opportunity to reap just because of my anatomy. I never chose this. My childhood was painful and my teenage years were isolated. No one ever loved me. Even now I cannot look at my naked figure without flinching. Will protected me, yes, but he loathes me for being different, for being a troublemaker. Alan, being gay, can only ever love me as a friend.

Angelina is the first girl who ever respected me. That is the only thing I wanted from anyone. I wanted my classmates and now my coworkers to respect me as a woman, as a person. But they treated my life as a joke. No one understands how hard it is to live as an outcast. An outcast in the Library, alongside humanity, and inside my very own body.

Madam called me ‘Miss Grell’ from the start. She trusts me with her very life. She expected me to be able to perform domestic tasks, and even though I’m lacking in that area, she still treats me as a capable servant. She never once mocked my violent urges; in fact, they satisfied a craving of hers as well as being very useful when it comes to disposing of tarts. And she _kissed_ me, bringing me a peak of pleasure I never expected.

I love her so much it congests my heart and pricks my eyes with the formation of tears.

I’m such a sentimental girl.

Madam sets a bowl of warm soup on the seat next to mine. “Is there anything else you want, dear?”

“My hair needs brushing, but you don’t have to-”

“I insist.” She gets up again and returns shortly with a hairbrush crusted with violet gems. The handle and bristles are a deep purple.

“That’s so pretty,” I breathe.

“It’s a family heirloom, my great-aunt’s birthstone passed down to the first married daughter in each generation. It was...well, it was Rachel’s wedding gift, and she passed it on to me.” She sighs. “I had a wonderful sister, Grell. She never tried to hurt me, and she couldn’t help being so beautiful. Rachel was the sweetest thing, if only…”

I should be envious of Angelina having a beautiful sister to pass down jewelry and memories, but instead I pity the hurt etched across her face. Angelina loved Rachel, but she was always jealous of her. Even resentment flits across her cherry eyes. I can’t understand the pain of death of a loved one, but it hurts me to see my beloved mistress sad. “It’s okay, dear,” I say softly.

“Thank you,” She whispers, blinking to clear her mind. The moment passes, and Angelina sits on the edge of the couch, beckoning me with the hairbrush to lay my head on her lap. An excited thrill awakens my body from the core to the fingertips as I sit beneath her and she lifts my hair over her legs. I close my eyes and shiver contentedly as she runs the hairbrush through my hair. A smile bubbles up at the feminine feeling of having someone brush my hair until I am bursting with joy, so much that my eyes start to leak and without meaning to I start to cry.

Angelina sinks down beside me and gathers me in a hug without a single question. She strokes my hair and I sob harder into her chest, gulping in the musky smell of her perfume and rubbing my cheek against the velvet-cloaked crevice between her breasts. My heart screams one word and I tremble, deciding to confess to her. Damn the consequences. I threw so much away for her already and I want to tumble further into our insanity until it becomes love.

“Madam…Angelina…” I gasp between sobs. “I…I…” I sniff and lean away from her, looking down into her beautiful eyes. Brushing away the tears, I continue, “I really cherish our time together. You are the best thing that’s ever happened to me. And...” I take a deep breath and continue in a rush, “I love you.”

Shaking with nerves, I ascertain her expression. Surprise? No, more like comprehension. An expression meaning I confirmed something she already guessed. Somewhat affectionate. I worry that I see pity, but it could be pride.

“Grell…” With a dusky voice Angelina reaches for a lock of my hair. “You are sure to love your reward.”

“Reward?” I ask, confused that she didn’t either dash or encourage my hope for a relationship.

“Well, there is the punishment for defying me with that prostitute, but you saved my life too and shall be rewarded. Which would you like first?”

Bewildered, I stare at her, unable to form a comment. Then a wave of self-consciousness hits me and it’s a struggle not to cover my face with my hands and dash from the room, crying. _I don’t understand…you heard what I said, didn’t you?_ But that’s too pitiful.

“If you can’t choose then I’ll set the punishment up while you eat. Come to your room after you’ve finished.”

I nod slowly so she leaves me in silence. “I love you though,” I whisper to the empty room. Shaking off my melancholy, I scrutinize the portraits of Angelina’s loved ones above the fireplace while slurping up the soup. Her late husband the Baron Burnett was an average, boring man; no competition there. But Vincent, the man she may still pine after, is delicious. My heart clenches at the sight of his child. Everyone takes child-bearing for granted, but all I can do is tear the wombs from women. It’s so unfair.

When I enter my room for the punishment, the blankets have been thrown off and thick white gauze is knotted to all four posts at the edge of my bed. I swallow, jittering with apprehension and anticipation.

“I brought some toys from work,” She gestures to the medical gauze. “Please remove your gown.”

My heart sinks as I finger the lace at the bottom of the gown. I can’t bear her look of displeasure when I unveil my masculine body. I can’t do this; I can’t be hurt like this. I won’t look at my own naked body so how can I let my beloved’s gaze rake this body I was given and scorch my flesh?

But after the punishment, there is an exquisite reward.

Pain. Pleasure.

Agony. Euphoria.

The two sides of the coin of my heart.

Meeting her gaze defiantly, I lift the gown over my head and stand before her in my lacy panties.

Angelina’s eyes widen. “You’re beautiful,” She breathes. “So slender, like Rachel.”

To distract her from the bulge in my panties with her appraisal, I insist, “But your curves are to die for.” My mistress smiles in return.

Angelina then tells me to lie on my bed. I settle into place and she lifts my arm and begins wrapping gauze around it. “During your punishment you will be bound and blinded, but you’ll be able to tell me to stop if it gets too painful.”

“Please gag me too. Shinigami can endure anything.”

“Are you certain?”

Before I finish saying yes, she stuffs a ball of gauze in my mouth and my eyes roll back with pleasure at the restraint. Then they are covered by whiteness. Efficiently and quickly, like the doctor she is, my mistress binds my legs and arms so that they are elevated.

This time I don’t know what her intentions are, so the waiting is ever so tense and delicious. My lady doesn’t touch me for what must be minutes while my limbs start to shake from being held up so long.

Angelina finally presses something sticky onto my chest and rips it off just as quickly. This pain is sharp and evanescent. My surprised scream wraps around the gag.

“Did I say you can scream?” This is the cold, commanding persona again. The woman who smiles as blood trickles down her servant’s back, then lifts her whip arm up again.

I shake my head, thrilled, drawn out by Angelina’s dominance.

“You may not scream.” Her voice is tempered by a hot annoyance.

My body tenses, expecting her to flay me with another bandage, but instead she makes me wait again. My skin prickles with expectation and my arms and legs tremble against their bondage. I want to sigh with pleasure but the gag prevents it. I wouldn’t mind if she left me like this all day.

This time, Angelina tears a bandage off my thigh. I bite back a scream but a moan escapes instead.

“Be silent,” She barks, backhanding my cheek. I whimper at the unexpected sting. “If you make another noise I will not be so lenient.” Going silent, I nod docilely. This game is as fun for me as it is for her.

My lady presses three bandages against my right arm and rips them off at the same time. To keep quiet I clench my teeth so hard that they bite through the gag. In quick succession she marks my left arm, then left leg, then stomach, but I bottle all my noises. My limbs chafe against the gauze. But flaying my neck is a more insistent type of pain and even I cannot prevent this groan.

“I warned you,” She reprimands. Nervous sweat trickles down my naked back. Madam strokes my healing ankle before stepping on it with her high heel. Screaming, a flash of redness clouds my vision as I arch my back. Even as I ache with pain I am smiling. “‘Shinigami can endure anything’.” My mistress seems to mock me, but I am not satisfied with the punishment yet. Even if the pain is so much that my eyes run with tears, it isn’t enough unless it brings me to that other state, that ethereal state of lightness and joy that only comes after intense agony fills every pore.

But she isn’t finished either. Madam rips bandages from what seems to be every inch of my bare skin and I use all my willpower to keep silent, squirming against my restraints. My submission is like a challenge for my mistress to break me. She responds by smoothing the bandages on my skin so that when ripped off they will hurt even more.

Finally my vision starts to swim and I hear my mistress’ heavy breathing as if from underwater. I still, grinning serenely, even as she continues to agonize my skin. My head lolls against the pillow and my heartbeat and breathing slow. My contentment is deep and I imagine my form to be like a nymph, bloody and triumphant after a battle to protect her tree.

Angelina must notice my relaxation because she stops flaying me and instead unbinds me, letting my aching limbs rest against my bed. Her tired body lays besides my sore one. Angelina arranges my arms to cradle her and yawns. “I want to sleep,” She whispers. “I’ll reward you later, all right?”

Suddenly we are not so much lovers but too young girls at a sleepover sharing a moment of trust and intimacy. My insecurity washed away for the moment, I press my nose into the back of her neck and nod, tightening my arms around her bosom. Her chest strains against my arms with each breath. Closing my eyes, I let the sensations of her hair over my forehead and our mingling breathing wash over me, and it is not long before we both fall asleep.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I went to Colossalcon and found out how shinigami are made!!!! (Check out Kuroshitsuji v. 21) It messes with some of my headcanons although not for this fic. I hope you are having fun reading it because I sure am writing it. ^.^


	8. Chapter 8

This is the first time I’ve woken up with someone else in my bed, so my heart starts racing once I open my eyes. Alas, she is fully clothed; nothing scandalous occurred during the night hours.

Angelina is so beautiful. From her eyes to lips to curves, every feature is perfect, like an artist’s vision of an angel.

I wish more than anything that she was my lover.

What happened earlier, after killing that prostitute…did that mean anything to her? Does the fact that my mistress is not acknowledging it mean that it was a mistake? I cannot bear to ask her these questions because I’d rather pretend that she wanted to kiss me and would have done more if we were at home.

I also wonder if the shinigami searching for me is on my trail or if they are clueless.

Pushing away my racing thoughts, I am content with having my arms around Angelina and tracing her features with my eyes.

“Good morning, mistress,” I murmur into her ear as she stirs into alertness.

 

Our morning is languid, lying side-by-side in bed and talking and giggling like two sisters. We continue to converse as she wipes clean my skin abrasions from last night and as we dress, bundling up against the cold, my hair in a braided bun covered by the abominable brown wig.

Angelina craves fresh scones so we brave the frigid morning air, walking to the bakery around the corner. Once the door to our house shuts I start to act as her butler. _Shy. Incompetent. Subservient_. I trail behind my mistress, bowing my head slightly, and pretend to trip over a rock. Angelina shoots me a glare for taking it too far as she covers a giggle behind her velvet glove.

I drop coins from my hand to the bakers’ and he hands me a small white bag. The paper crinkles in my hand as I open it and spread cream on a scone for my mistress. I stand behind her, fidgeting, as she nibbles on the warm raisin scone. She does not invite me to sit with her since that would be a serious breach of decorum.

“There’s a crazy murderer at large! We got pictures fresh off the press!” Angelina and I exchange a startled glance as a newspaper boy hollers. “Jack the Ripper only goes for the pretty ladies, better be careful!” He teases two debutantes who walk past him. They titter and toss him a coin in exchange for a paper.

“So we have a name now,” I whisper. “The Ripper.”

“ _Jack_ the Ripper,” Angelina corrects. She has stopped eating to stare at the little boy, back rigid at being discovered. “They are looking for a man, not two women. But it might be better for you to ‘rip’ the prostitutes alone; even patrolmen cannot check a reaper.”

“Tonight?” I ask hopefully, like a puppy pawing at her owner for a treat.

She nods then finishes off her breakfast.

 

“Grell, would you be a dear and draw a bath for me?” My mistress has her work clothes laid out, shift starting in less than two hours. My butler outfit needs to be cleaned; in the meantime I’m wearing my Dispatch uniform. She has given me another name and address for tonight and the instruction to ‘be creative.’

“Of course, my lady,” I call from her boudoir. During the morning we discovered that our taste in fashion is remarkably similar and I have been given free rein with her wardrobe. Her selection of powders is extensive and I finish dabbing my nose before fetching the washing basin and filling it with water to boil above the stove.

I materialize back to her room and find her readying her own makeup before work. She jumps at my sudden appearance and smears a trail of lipstick across her chin.

“Oh dear,” I say apologetically, reaching out and dabbing it from her face with a handkerchief. “I didn’t mean to startle you, Madam. I’m used to skipping the stairs. But that is quite a lovely shade of red! Such a deep color, it makes you look so elegant.”

“It doesn’t make me look too pale?”

“No, mistress, it makes your skin glow.”

She turns her head side to side, evaluating the angles presented in her mirror. “Yes, I think you’re right. Oh, is the bath almost ready? I’m looking forward to soaking in it.”

“I’ll bring it right up for you.”

I turn the stove off then grip the heavy washing tub and haul it up the stairs, water close to sloshing over the edges. Dumping the heated water into the tub, I pour rose-scented shampoo after it until it is frothed with bubbles.

I wonder what Alan would think of this. He surely would approve, knowing my feelings for her. But would he have abandoned his work as a shinigami for his love for Eric?

While Angelina soaks in that relaxing bath I finger her delicate dress fabrics. She is smaller than me, but I can pull on her long red jacket. I admire my silhouette in the mirror, even though it drapes off my shoulders something awful. I really am a pretty girl. But my mistress is a beautiful woman.

Soon there comes a voice at her bedroom door. “Grell, handcuff yourself to my chair and close your eyes. It’s time for your reward.”

I rush to obey, smiling giddily, plunking down onto her chair framed by thick drapery and slipping my left hand through the metal handcuff. Closing my eyes, I try to relax my shoulders. And expectations. I don’t care if she’s playing with me as long as I get the prize.

“I’m ready,” I call.

“No peeking,” She purrs. Angelina creaks open the door and I grip the armrests, fingers trembling slightly. My heart beats faster before I even see her and my breath races in anticipation.

Her footsteps are slow, deliberate. Teasing. I picture various weapons in her hand and smile.

Blood and kisses. The perfect treat.

Angelina stops in front of me and gently lifts up my eyelids. I swallow wetly, overcome with a rush of heat. My mistress is gorgeous even in a doctor uniform, so to behold her in this state of undress…it’s like looking upon a goddess.

Her bare shoulders gleam with water droplets. Her damp red hair sparkles in the ray of sunlight that slips through the curtains. Her eyes are confident and excited, lips plump with crimson lipstick. Her face is flawless, so smooth and soft. Her hourglass figure is squeezed by a red corset, black lace adorning her peeking breasts. So feminine, so lovely.

I open my mouth, intending to give a compliment, but instead inhale sharply. It’s hard to breathe when the most beautiful woman in the world is seducing me.

Her gloves are a net of see-through black lace flowers that match her panties. The sight of her bush of red hair down there already makes me damp. The spandex tights held up by enticing garters are too much for me. Her bare feet are painted red, just like mine.

Angelina says, “You can do whatever you want to me.”

The words echo in my mind for a few seconds and I blink at her. Suddenly I shiver, as if a key turned on my body’s sensitivity. I’m aware of the patch of sunlight dancing over my shoulders and the firm reaction to seeing her naked body and the whisper of her hair as she leans towards me seductively with that enticing smirk.

An indolent smile curls up my lips and I reach for her face, bottling any apprehensive insecurity for later. My mistress kisses me slowly and I draw it out deeply. I lose myself to the sensation of her mouth upon mine, her arms stroking my hair, my hand cupping her downy cheeks.

Angelina settles into my lap, knees pressed into my stomach, her chest just above my eyes. She bends over me as the temperature ratchets, harder kisses that roll through our entire bodies, and blood rushes to my head as she arches me over the chair. My teeth nip her chin and she gasps, crushing my lips under hers.

I want her breasts in my mouth again but her corset is in the way so I unlace it, massaging her bare back, and slide it down until my mistress’ nipples pop out. Using my thumb, I knead and flick her chest until her nipples perk up. Her breasts fit perfectly in my hand, and it’s adorable that the left one is slightly bigger. As I kiss them all over, rejoicing when she pants with pleasure, I wish that they were mine.

She grabs my free hand and makes me pull down her panties too. A creamy liquid drips between her thighs and I know my panties are just as damp.

This is the first time that I’ve seen a vagina and had the invitation to explore it.

As a girl born in a male body, this is an essential body part that would have given me such an easier life. But if I wasn’t such a queer reaper with a kink for violence I would never have fallen for Angelina. Even with all the pain and self-consciousness of my invalidated gender, being with Madam is worth more than a natural-born quim.

I am definitely going to enjoy hers.

Massaging the thicket of hair coating her, I continue to suckle Angelina’s nipples then lower my eyes to her lap. Imagining it is my own that I am fondling, my throbbing and moans are rougher than my vocal lovers’. I part her lips then stroke the slick pink flaps guarding her hole.

When my fingers slip inside her wet quim she groans and pushes my hair out of the way to kiss me, but when I press inside Angelina her eyes roll back and she cannot focus enough to peck me on the lips. I push inside her tunnel and my fingers are enveloped by her hungry quim. She bucks to the rhythm of my insistent fingers pounding inside of her and yells when she finally releases.

I’m shaking with the need of being stroked and letting go the same way. “Madam,” I whimper. “Please finish me off too.” I clumsily unbutton and unzip my slacks and practically rip away my lacy panties so my cock can spring out, so hard and full.

“Oh,” Angelina breathes, eyes widening.

I’m too aroused to heed her discomfort or surprise or disgust. “Please,” I whine. “I can’t…”

She falls to her knees and takes me into her mouth. I jump at the unfamiliar sensation of being licked there, but after a few strokes pleasure shoves my thoughts aside. She digs her nails into my arse and bangs me against the chair in tandem with her licks, knowing just how to draw shouts from my clenched, trembling lips. My voice has never been deeper then when I groan her name, shuddering and stilling before exploding in glory.

Angelina unlocks my handcuff and pulls me to her bed, where our breath slows and sweat dries and memories cement. She is turned towards me, but I close my eyes as if asleep instead of meeting her gaze. Why does this have to be so hard? Why can I not love her as a true woman? Does she even see me as one?

“Grell, my reaper with your oh so pretty moans, what is on your mind?” Angelina plays with a piece of my hair and I cross my arms over my nonexistent chest self-consciously. “I know you’re not asleep.”

I open one eye and sigh. “Nothing, mistress. I’m just tired.”

Suddenly Angelina pins me to the bed and leans over me, breasts wiggling with the movement. “I can make you tell me,” She warns, nipping my ear playfully.

“As much as I would like it…that’s not the problem.” I frown, feeling very put upon.

She cocks one eyebrow. “So there is a problem?”

“With me. I’ve always had a problem; I was born with it.” I suddenly cannot hold it in. “Have any of your patients ever been born the wrong gender?”

Angelina bites her lower lip. “I’ve never heard of such a thing,” She says apologetically. “Is that you were referring to when we met? I didn’t really understand it.”

“I don’t either. I have this feeling deep in my heart that I’m supposed to be female. Why was I born in this body that feels so wrong? Why do I imagine myself as a nobleman’s dolled-up wife and flinch everyone time someone ‘sirs’ me?” Her expression is serious as my eyes fill with emotion. “It’s so unfair. To not only be robbed of the joys of being a woman, but to also be cursed with barrenness. I just want to be with you, two women who happen to be lovers. I just…I just…”

She kisses me consolingly. “We’ve both been cursed by this hateful world, Grell. Maybe it was meant for us to be together like this, as a way for the universe to atone for the mistakes it has made with us.”

And, before she has to leave for work, she shows me just how we are meant to be together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have been slacking on this fic because my novel Redemption is going so well. But there are only a few chapters left of this fic and I promise that I will finish it. My upcoming fics will feature my OTP Alan/Eric, my ultimate bae Count D, and my fandom Gash Bell. (If you have these things in common, I would especially love to have you as a beta reader~)  
> I’m asexual, but writing erotica is pretty easy. Writing and reading fic is pretty much the only time I think about sex anyway. For me, erotica isn’t stimulating since my sex drive is practically nonexistent (unless I have a girlfriend; I’m a demisexual lesbian). It’s the same to me as writing a murder scene; I could never hurt anyone, but I can write it by viewing it as an extension of Grell’s character, just like her blood kink. ^.^

**Author's Note:**

> Critiques are very welcome because this story is being edited thoroughly. Also, if anyone wants to help edit these stories and be a sounding board and writing buddy for my various writing projects, please contact me at queeryuki@gmail.com Thanks dears <3  
> Comments and kudos make me feel warm and fuzzy inside~ *blows a Grelly kiss*  
> Please enjoy this lovely pic which inspired this fic http://prince-lelouch.deviantart.com/art/The-lovers-137122904
> 
> UPDATE 9/17/15: I am not going to be posting any new chapters for a while because I am now rewriting this fic. It's good, but it could be so much better with more consistency and description and an accurate Victorian setting. I will also be working on oneshots in the meantime.


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